


Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Fear No Evil [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood and Gore, Demon Deals, Demons, Drug-fuelled dream sex, M/M, Mention of Past Abuse, Period-Typical Racism, Ritual Magic, Sex, catacombs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8660413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Final part of the Fear No Evil series. Athos is still looking for a way to break the demon Malphas' claim on Aramis' soul, but with Aramis trapped in the underworld following an accident, time is running out. In the search for answers and with problems of his own Porthos is drawn into the risky world of ceremonial magic, while d'Artagnan encounters a sinister coven in the catacombs beneath Paris - but help may be at hand from the unlikeliest of sources - a ghostly cat.





	1. Chapter 1

“Now I Iay me down to sleep  
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.  
If I die before I wake  
I pray the Lord my soul to take.”  
[ _Trad. child’s prayer, 18th C._ ] 

Athos pushed his glasses up into his hair and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was sitting on the living room floor of the little terraced cottage he shared with Porthos, surrounded by books and scribbled notes and a familiar feeling of getting nowhere fast.

Almost three years had passed since he’d been inadvertently responsible for condemning the soul of one of his best friends to hell, and despite the fact that nobody blamed him for it, the knowledge still sat heavily. Since then, he’d spent endless hours in research and a lot of money on obscure grimoires of magical practice in an attempt to find a way to force the demon Malphas to relinquish his claim, but so far nothing feasible had suggested itself.

Aramis, the man in possession of said doomed soul, had spent a few months in pious contemplation and clean living then decided that that was much too boring and he might as well enjoy the time he had left to the fullest. Consequently, as soon as his lover d’Artagnan had graduated from university Aramis had spirited him off on an extended round the world trip. 

Aramis wrote frequently and in detail about their travels, and Athos was never quite sure if these letters were meant to convince him that Aramis was happy and blithely unconcerned. To him they read as the over-bright and slightly manic protestations of a man desperately ignoring his fate.

He stretched his cramped limbs and leaned back against the settee, smiling slightly as he heard a creak from one of the dining chairs.

When they’d moved into the cottage it had turned out there was already an occupant – what appeared to be the ghost of a cat. It had been slightly unnerving at first, but they’d both got used to it a long time ago. Porthos largely ignored it, but Athos had to admit he’d become rather fond of her, and could usually sense where she was, despite the fact neither of them had ever actually seen her. 

He’d told Porthos she was called Jennet, and when Porthos asked where he’d got the name from, Athos had absent-mindedly replied that he hadn’t made it up, it was what she wanted to be called. Porthos had said he was batty and Athos had dropped the matter, but the name had stuck.

Porthos too had now graduated with honours from the Faculty of Law and after a rather soul-crushing search had eventually found a firm willing to take him on in a position where he could train to become a barrister. Despite Athos offering to move wherever they needed to, Porthos had been determined that pursuing his career shouldn’t mean Athos having to give up his own, and to his relief had finally been offered pupillage at one of the city’s smaller and less prestigious firms.

Athos yawned, and glanced at the clock. It was late, and Porthos should have been home ages ago. He’d been putting in long hours, both to show he was keen and simply to keep on top of the work he had to do, but this was unusual even for him. 

Athos had taken advantage of the unexpected evening alone to make inroads into the latest book of medieval sorcery he’d acquired, but it was proving to be as useless as all the others. Summoning a demon seemed to be a dangerously simple matter once you knew what you were doing. Making it do what you wanted once you had it was another question entirely, particularly as they knew Malphas was in the habit of demanding a soul as payment for being summoned at all. They didn’t want to end up even worse off than they were now.

The sound of a key in the lock made him look up, and Porthos walked in looking tired and remarkably grumpy.

“You’re late,” Athos said, meaning to be sympathetic, but in his spiky mood Porthos took it as a criticism and glared at him.

“Sorry I’m sure. Didn’t realise I was on the clock here as well.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Athos sighed. “Is everything alright?”

Porthos hung up his coat with a wordless grunt of exasperation, shrugging off the question irritably. The route to the settee was blocked by Athos’ sea of papers so he pulled out the nearest dining chair and started to lower himself onto it.

“Don’t sit there!” Athos yelped.

Porthos hastily straightened up again and looked in bewilderment from the empty cushion to Athos.

“Never mind,” Athos sighed. “She’s gone.”

Porthos glowered at him. “When did my home become all black magic and bloody ghosts?” he demanded. “Is it too much to ask that we live in the real world for a while?”

“Porthos what’s the matter?” Athos stared at him in consternation, realising for the first time that underneath the uncharacteristic anger, Porthos was quite drunk. 

“Nothing,” Porthos snapped. “Why would there be anything wrong? World works perfectly for everyone else, doesn’t it? All running smoothly on its appointed lines. Go back to your fucking spellbooks, I’m going to bed.” He stamped up the wooden stairs and disappeared.

For a while Athos could hear the floorboards creaking as he moved about, then all went quiet. He felt something nudge his foot and reached out without looking, feeling the fleeting brush of warm fur against his fingers. “What’s eating him?” Athos sighed. He glanced down, but there was nothing to see. There never was.

Steeling himself for further bad temper, after a few minutes Athos followed Porthos upstairs where he was more shocked than he was prepared to admit to find that Porthos had put himself to bed in the back room.

Since moving in together they’d maintained two bedrooms for appearances’ sake, but had only ever used the second bed on the rare occasion that one of them had been ill. Even in the middle of their fiercest rows, they’d never slept apart.

Athos crept in quietly. Porthos was under the covers and the light was off but he was clearly still awake.

Slipping off his shoes, Athos lifted the covers and climbed in behind him. Porthos didn’t acknowledge his presence, but neither did he tell him to fuck off, which Athos had been half-afraid of.

“I’m sorry,” Athos murmured.

“What for?” Porthos asked grudgingly. 

“Whatever it is I’ve done to upset you.”

Porthos snorted derisively at this, and Athos sighed. 

“Have I been neglecting you? I’m sorry. But I can’t believe that you’d have me simply abandon Aramis to his fate.”

Porthos snorted again, hunching his shoulders defensively against Athos’ attempts to embrace him. “Aramis,” he muttered scornfully. “Aramis and his sodding world tour, and his posh hotels, and his endless bloody sex.”

Athos winced. It was true that Aramis had an unfortunate tendency to be entirely too openly explicit about his relations with d’Artagnan, but Athos hadn’t thought that he and Porthos had been too shabby on that score themselves, even if they preferred to keep the details private. 

“What’s he know about struggling, eh? Cursed or not, he’s out there living it up while some of us are trying to do an honest day’s work.” 

There was a bitterness behind his words that startled Athos. Porthos had never appeared to be jealous of Aramis before, on the contrary, they were firm friends – which lead him to conclude that whatever Porthos was upset about it was something else entirely. 

“Porthos? What’s really wrong?” Athos coaxed quietly. “Tell me?”

Porthos huffed and punched the pillow a few times, trying to get comfortable in the unfamiliar bed. His desire to sulk was warring with the desire to complain, and he hated the fact that both options were likely to make it look as if he was just feeling sorry for himself.

Finally he rolled over onto his back and stared blankly at the ceiling. “We were supposed to get the chance to work for real clients today,” he said. “Supervised, like, but the firm offers discounted legal advice for people willing to be represented by someone in training. Today was the day I should have had my first real client.”

“You didn’t tell me?” Athos murmured. This was a huge deal for Porthos, a major step on the road towards becoming a barrister, and he was faintly surprised that Porthos had kept quiet about it.

“Didn’t want to jinx it, did I?” Porthos said ruefully. “Just as well, as it turns out.”

“What happened?”

Porthos was silent for a moment, then swallowed hard. “They didn’t want me, did they? Three blokes there were, all up on petty charges, all in desperate need of help. Not one of ‘em was willing to have me take on his case.”

“But whyever not?” Athos protested, although his heart sank as he guessed the probable answer.

“Wrong colour, aren’t I?” Porthos said bitterly. He finally shifted over to look at Athos. “One of them even laughed at me,” he blurted, the words spilling out before he could stop them. He was desperately humiliated and the last thing he wanted right now was condescending sympathy. 

“I went to the pub,” Porthos said tiredly. “After work. Soon as I could get out. Should have been celebrating, shouldn’t I? Not trying to numb my feelings. I know I should have come home after a few, but I couldn’t face telling you what had happened so I just kept drinking until they turned us all out.”

“Oh Porthos.” Athos reached out and pulled Porthos into his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, knowing how wretched Porthos must be feeling and becoming increasingly furious at the world on his behalf.

Porthos clung to him, discovering that actually, being comforted by someone who loved him didn’t make him feel smaller after all.

“It’s all been a massive waste, hasn’t it?” he said miserably. “All that work, all that money. I’ll never make it. They’ll never let me in. All this time, I’ve been fooling myself.”

“You’ll get there,” Athos soothed, sensing that Porthos was close to shedding tears of sheer frustration. “We always knew it wasn’t going to be easy.”

“It shouldn’t have to be this hard,” Porthos mumbled, his face now buried in Athos’ neck.

“If I could change the world for you, I would,” Athos said, holding him close. “But if anyone can change it, it’s going to be you. I know it.”

He lay there with Porthos in his arms until his lover’s snuffly breathing gradually deepened into erratic drunken snores, then Athos slid carefully back out of bed. Without bothering to put his shoes back on he padded quietly downstairs and tidied away all the books he’d been using, then shut his research notes away in the bureau. Aramis was still a problem in need of a solution, but right now Porthos needed him more.

Preparing for bed, Athos finished in the bathroom and turned down all the lights, undressing in the dark before finally climbing back in with Porthos in the narrow second bed.

\--

When he woke the next morning it took Athos a second to work out where he was, and why. Porthos was already awake, and to his relief looked a little more positive.

“Morning.” Athos stretched, shading his eyes from the sunlight pouring in through the small window. He sat up and looked out over the roofscape beyond the backyard with interest. “Different view,” he said conversationally, and Porthos gave him an embarrassed smile.

“I’m sorry I shouted at you last night,” Porthos said contritely. “Thanks for coming after me. I didn’t deserve it.”

Athos kissed him fondly. “You can run, but you can’t hide,” he smiled.

\--

Aramis and d’Artagnan had reached Paris on their grand tour. Aramis had been before, and had consequently wanted to visit other places first, but it was d’Artagnan’s first time in the city and he was loving it. 

They’d been up the Eiffel Tower already that morning, and as they relaxed with coffee afterwards, d’Artagnan spotted a poster advertising tours of the Paris Catacombs. Originally old mine workings under the city, they had been converted into an extensive ossuary when nearby graveyards began to overflow.

“We’ve been to the top of the world, now how about the bottom?” d’Artagnan laughed. 

Aramis made a face. “Really? It sounds gruesome.”

“Says the man who hacks off legs for a living.” 

“It’s a little more involved that that, dearheart,” Aramis complained, but let himself be talked into it anyway. He found it hard to refuse d’Artagnan anything, and besides, it might be fun.

An hour or so later he was regretting his decision somewhat. The tunnels were dark and creepy and the bizarre arrangements of skulls and bones struck him as unnecessarily ghoulish. Porthos would have hated it down here, he thought, remembering the man’s hearty dislike of dark confined spaces, and his panic when they’d been trapped in a tunnel once before. 

D’Artagnan seemed to be enjoying it though he had to admit, taking it all in with an expression somewhere between awe and glee. For Aramis, it all reminded him a bit too sharply of his own mortality.

Blithely unaware of Aramis’ discomfort, d’Artagnan pressed on deeper into the tunnels. His eye had been caught, not just by the gothically elaborate displays but by a woman on the fringes of the group who seemed in turn to be watching him. Her hooded cloak made it difficult for him to see her face, but he got the distinct impression she was more interested in him than the contents of the tour. 

Ordinarily he would have been flattered by the attention, but there was something in her manner that suggested her interest was not one of flirtation.

“Have you noticed we’re being watched?” he murmured to Aramis, inclining his head discreetly in the direction of the lady in question. 

Aramis immediately looked round with a lamentable lack of discretion, and stared into the shadows, frowning. “Who by?”

“Her over there,” d’Artagnan hissed. “Long black dress, cloak with a hood.”

“I don’t see anyone?”

D’Artagnan gave in and turned round himself, finding to his surprise that she’d gone. He looked around, peering at each of the members of their group in turn but he didn’t spot her again until they were on their way out. Then he caught sight of her watching him from a side passage, and gripped Aramis arm.

“There!”

Aramis turned, but again he was too slow and the lady had vanished. “Are you sure you’re not seeing things?” he asked with a laugh. “Overactive imagination, that’s your trouble.”

D’Artagnan let it drop, but as they emerged back into the sunshine he carefully watched everybody walk out and satisfied himself that she wasn’t amongst the group, who were otherwise all men.

“Excuse me Monsieur,” he asked the elderly gentleman who’d escorted them round. “Who was the lady in the tunnels? Does she work here?”

“What lady?” he asked brusquely, rolling a cigarette and wanting to be rid of this party so he could prepare for the next one. 

“The lady in the black dress and hood,” d’Artagnan persisted, offering him a light. “She didn’t come up with the rest.”

The tour guide had accepted the light with a nod of thanks, but now stepped backwards in sudden recoil and to d’Artagnan’s astonishment, crossed himself. 

“There was no lady, m’sieur, you are mistaken. The catacombs, they are no place for a lady. Excuse me.” Head down, he shuffled off hurriedly, leaving d’Artagnan staring after him in puzzlement. 

“Well. What do you make of that?” he asked Aramis. “She was definitely there.”

“I think you’re probably hallucinating due to hunger,” Aramis told him cheerfully. “What do you say we find somewhere for lunch?”

\--

Twenty minutes later they were walking down the side of a bustling thoroughfare looking for a suitable café and dodging the various delivery vans and bicycles that seemed to think nothing of running up over the pavement in utter disregard of the throng of pedestrians.

“That one looks nice?” d’Artagnan suggested, pointing across the street. “We could sit outside?”

“Yes, alright – ugh!” Aramis swiped a hand in front of his face as if to ward off an attack.

“You alright?”

“Bloody wasp or something.” Aramis ducked sharply sideways as he heard a loud buzzing right next to his ear, ruffling his hair in revulsion in case it had got caught. 

“A wasp? At this time of year?” d’Artagnan asked sceptically, but Aramis wasn’t listening, being too busy trying to drive off his tormentor.

“Here, careful!” d’Artagnan warned, seeing Aramis was off balance and teetering dangerously close to the kerb. The pavement was slightly raised above the cobbles here to allow for a roadside drain, and Aramis’ flapping had taken him steadily towards the edge. 

Aramis looked round warily, listening out for any tell-tale buzzing and wondering if he’d finally driven it off. “Bloody thing,” he muttered, feeling embarrassed at the spectacle he’d just made of himself. “No business to be out in this weather.”

As he made to take a step forwards he saw it coming, a black shape in the corner of his vision making straight for him. It neatly zig-zagged around his outstretched hand and to his mounting horror, landed on his face.

Trying to escape and not thinking at all, Aramis took a step backwards into empty air. 

The short drop to the road wasn’t so far that he fell over, but he landed off-balance with an awkward jarring thump. Everything might yet have been alright, if only he hadn’t fallen directly into the path of a delivery lorry.

Aramis just had time to see a huge metal grille speeding towards his face, to hear the frantic squealing of brakes and d’Artagnan’s frightened yell from somewhere above, and then everything went black.

\--

Athos and Porthos had spent a quietly contented Saturday together, venturing out for lunch and walking slowly back along the river, simply enjoying each other’s company and staying off the thorny topics of work and magic. Athos was glad to note that Porthos seemed a little happier than he’d done the night before, particularly once his hangover wore off, and conceded that they should probably spend more days like this just being together and doing nothing in particular. 

They were settled back indoors and preparing for a comfortable evening by the fire with a bottle of wine and the possibility of an early night, when an unexpected knock on the door heralded the arrival of a telegram.

“It’s for you.” Porthos handed it to Athos, looking inquisitive. “Who’s sending you telegrams at home?”

“I have no idea.” Athos opened it, and stared.

_Athos – please telephone me as soon as you can in Paris on Salpêtrière 65 – d’Artagnan._

Athos read it out and looked at Porthos in mild alarm. “Whatever can be the matter?”

“Something too urgent to put in a letter,” Porthos said, and Athos nodded.

“Not only that, but something too urgent to wait until Monday, when he could have put his own call through to me at the university.” Athos looked at the clock. “There should still be someone in the office, I’d better go now.”

“I’ll come with you,” Porthos said, equally concerned about what the terse message might herald. 

They hurried through the darkening streets together, reaching the warm sanctuary of the college gatehouse with considerable relief, as the weather was sharp and promised a hard frost.

“Professor.” The woman in the office was just putting on her coat as they walked in, and looked up in surprise.

“Hallo Ruth, sorry, I need to put a trunk call through to Paris, it’s quite urgent, do you mind?”

“I was about to lock up.” She sighed. “Go on then, I’ll go and have a cuppa with Mr Gregory in the lodge. Bang on the window when you’re done.”

“You’re an angel.” Athos hastily closed the door behind her and went to the telephone, explaining to the operator what he needed. He listened for a while then covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Porthos, “It’s a hospital.”

Porthos looked more alarmed than ever, and they exchanged muted speculation until the operator came back on the line to say that Athos’ call could be put through.

“Hallo, yes, my name is Athos, could I speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan please?” he asked in French, unsure if d’Artagnan was a patient or a visitor or even if the receptionist who’d taken his call would know who he was talking about. It appeared that she’d been primed to expect him though, and simply asked him to hold the line.

After a couple of minutes during which Athos anxiously watched the clock and wondered how he was going to explain away the expense of this call to the university, there was a crackle on the line and then d’Artagnan’s tense voice in his ear.

“Athos?”

“Yes, yes it’s me, what’s wrong, what’s happened?”

“Oh thank God.” D’Artagnan sounded flustered and out of breath, and Athos supposed he’d just run from wherever he’d been to the telephone. He bit back his impatience and let d’Artagnan explain in his own time.

“It’s Aramis,” d’Artagnan told him, finally calming down a little at the sound of Athos’ voice. Athos had always been someone he’d been able to turn to, Athos would know what to do. “He’s been in an accident.”

“An accident? What happened? Is he alright?” Athos asked in alarm, mouthing _‘Aramis’_ for Porthos’ benefit. If d’Artagnan was in a hospital it sounded serious, but by inference Aramis was presumably at least still alive.

“He was hit by a lorry,” d’Artagnan told him shakily. “Earlier today. He – they can’t wake him up.”

“It was that bad?” Athos listened to d’Artagnan gulping for breath on the other end of the line, and forced himself not to press too quickly for more information. “Alright, calm down. First, tell me, are you hurt? Were you both involved?”

“No, just Aramis.” D’Artagnan mastered himself and took a deep breath. “The doctors are saying that his injuries aren’t that severe, he didn’t even break anything. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t have come round by now, they can’t explain it. They think – maybe there was undetected head trauma,” he said anxiously. “They’re doing more tests.”

“But you think there might be another reason?” Athos guessed.

“Is it possible?”

“You think that Malphas is somehow behind it? How can I say? You’re the one there, do you think it’s likely?”

D’Artagnan hesitated. “Before he fell – he kept saying there was a bee or a wasp or something attacking him. But I couldn’t see anything. He was trying to wave it away when he fell off the pavement. He shouldn’t have been in the road in the first place. But now I think back, the truck wasn’t going that fast – I was horrified at the time, but when the tests showed there was nothing wrong I thought he’d just been knocked out. But now – I don’t know what to think. Yes, alright, yes, I’m scared this isn’t natural. The doctors all seem baffled.”

“What do you want us to do?” Athos asked. “Should we come to you?”

“I don’t think you could do anything if you did,” d’Artagnan admitted, as much as he desperately wanted company right now. “Just – keep trying to find a way to help him?” he begged. “Before – before it’s too late. Even if Malphas isn’t behind it, if Aramis dies – you know?”

“I know,” said Athos heavily. “Believe me, I know. And I’ll do all I can, I promise. Let me know if anything changes.”

Athos rang off and turned to Porthos with a grim expression. Before he could elaborate, Ruth stuck her head back in the door and wanted to know if they’d finished, so they thanked her profusely and hastily took their leave.

It was dark outside now and Porthos slid his hand into Athos’ as they walked, while Athos recounted the gist of the conversation. He kept his tone neutral but when they reached home Porthos could see that he’d gone deathly pale, and guessed it wasn’t just from the cold.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, stopping Athos in his tracks. He looked up, slightly wild-eyed.

“Me?”

“You,” Porthos confirmed, coming over to slip his arms around Athos’ waist. “I know how you want to blame yourself for what happened.”

“I thought we’d have more time,” Athos said distractedly, pulling at his hair. “It was my fault,” he added under his breath, and Porthos resisted the urge to shake him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he insisted. “You did nothing, _said_ nothing, _agreed_ to nothing. We’ve still only got that bastard’s word for it that it’s at all binding in the first place.” 

“Everything I’ve read suggests it is,” Athos said tiredly. “Ignorance of a demon’s price is no defence.”

“You were saving d’Artagnan - ”

“And in doing so I damned Aramis,” Athos finished for him. “And my only single spark of relief in the whole affair is that I wasn’t thinking of you at the crucial moment.”

Porthos groaned and pulled Athos into his arms. He’d known the guilt was eating away at Athos over this, but he hadn’t appreciated quite how much. “We’ll fix it,” he promised quietly. “We’ve beaten this thing before, twice. We can do it again. Somehow.”

“I might have a way,” Athos admitted, pulling back slightly to look at him. Porthos gave him narrowed eyes, guessing that if he hadn’t mentioned it before it was probably going to be something unpalatable.

“What?”

“I’ve been told there’s a group of magical practitioners operating in the city. That they are performing the kind of ceremonial and structured rituals that are required for this kind of work. And – they are looking to recruit a new member to their circle.”

“You’re talking about using them to raise a demon.”

“Yes. I didn’t want to bring others into it, but we’re out of time, and they would offer the level of control that we’d need.”

“Assuming you manage it, what are you going to do then?” Porthos demanded. “Have you even thought that far? How’s it going to go any different from last time?” He gripped Athos by the shoulders and glared at him. “You’re not going to do something bloody stupid like offer your own soul in exchange are you?” he asked suspiciously. Athos looked away and Porthos growled in frustration. “Don’t you bloody dare! Anyway, you already tried that and he wasn’t interested.”

“Then I’ll offer something else,” Athos said tiredly. 

“Like what? What kind’ve thing is a demon going to ask for in place of a soul?” Porthos asked incredulously. “It’s not going to be a nice thing, is it? It’s going to be like – murdering children or something. Or worse. Would you really do that to save Aramis? ‘Cause he wouldn’t want you to.”

Despite the atmosphere, Athos almost smiled. “Worse than murdering children?”

“Yeah.” Porthos sounded shaken. “Like – personally worse. He could ask you to – I don’t know – break my heart or something.” He stared at Athos, feeling tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. “Would you do that for Aramis? Would you destroy both of us to save him?”

Athos looked shocked. “No,” he said finally, under his breath. “No. I couldn’t do that. Not even knowing the price.”

Porthos let out the breath he’d been holding in a rush and pulled Athos into his arms. They clung to each other, both blinking away tears. 

“You’d make a good demon,” Athos murmured, half-laughing and half-sniffing. “Coming up with awful things like that.”

Porthos kissed him. “No I wouldn’t. I’d be too soft to ever make anyone unhappy. I’d be kicked out of Hell for being the world’s soppiest fiend.”

“No, they’d all secretly like you,” Athos smiled. “You’d be going round making sure their fires were all stoked and polishing their pitchforks.” Porthos gave a cackle of laughter at this, and Athos elbowed him indignantly. “I did not mean that in a dirty - ” 

The rest of his sentence was lost because Porthos was kissing him.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Having hung up on Athos, d’Artagnan was too restless to settle. Convinced he should be doing something more useful than just sitting at Aramis’ bedside, he found his thoughts repeatedly returning to the lady he’d seen in the catacombs that morning. 

Apart from her obvious interest in them there’d been something unsettling about her, otherworldly almost, and he wondered if she might not have had something to do with Aramis’ current state. On the other hand, if she was innocent of any wrong-doing, she looked like the sort of person who might be able to help. Either way, he decided he needed to speak to her.

He patted Aramis’ unresponsive hand, and stood up. “We’re going to save you,” he whispered. “You just hang in there, okay?”

Hurrying through the streets he hardly noticed the cold, preoccupied as he was both with the worry that he was on a wild goose chase, and the more prosaic problem of how he was going to get into the catacombs which would presumably be locked up for the night.

When he arrived at the building that housed the entrance he was relieved to find there was a dim light on inside, but there was no answer to his knock. 

Tentatively, d’Artagnan tried the door and was surprised when it swung open under his touch.

“Hello?” There was no reply, and although he found a lamp burning in the small ticket office, the place was deserted.

Scalp prickling with apprehension, he descended the steps into the catacombs. When they’d come earlier, there had been a series of electric lights linked by a thick cable to show them the way. Now when he reached the bottom, he discovered a line of candles burning in a trail that lead deeper into the tunnels.

“Well that’s not creepy at all,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his palms and steadying his nerves. It did at least show that he – or someone, at least – was expected, and there was someone down here to be found.

For several minutes he followed the trail of candlelight through the catacombs, hesitating for only a second when it lead him away from the public areas. Deeper and deeper into the old mine he went, until finally the trail brought him to a dead-end.

There was nothing remarkable about the bare chamber he found himself in, and he turned round in confusion, only to find to his alarm that the candles had been snuffed out.

He pushed down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, the fear that he’d never find his way out again. The candles hadn’t gone out on their own, which meant he wasn’t alone down here.

“Where are you? Stop playing silly buggers,” he called, sounding braver than he felt.

After a moment there was a rustling of silk, and the woman he’d seen earlier – at least he presumed it was – emerged from the darkness. He saw now that what he’d taken for a long dress was more of a robe, the hood and cloak all part of the same garment. It looked vaguely religious, but he was certain she wasn’t a nun.

“You were looking for me?” she asked. To his relief she sounded amused rather than angry, and reasonably friendly. 

“I think I need your help,” he said. Somehow he’d already discounted the fact that she might be responsible for all this, he didn’t get a sense of animosity from her. “And I think that you already know it.”

She gave a delicate shrug. “I had thought you might be back, yes. I had hoped I was wrong. Come with me. Ah – but first – I must ask you to wear this.” To d’Artagnan’s unease she held out a blindfold. “Forgive me, but we prefer people not to know how to find us.”

With certain misgivings, he allowed her to fasten it around his eyes, and felt her take his arm. 

“It is not so far,” she told him reassuringly, leading him off into the unknown. 

D’Artagnan tried to keep track of the twists and turns they took, but without knowing the layout of the place it was hopeless. He was wondering exactly how far the tunnels stretched, and whether she was doubling back to confuse him, when they finally came to a halt. 

“You may remove the blindfold,” she instructed, letting go of his arm. He quickly did as he was told, jumping slightly to discover that they were no longer alone. He was in a cavernous room lit by a multitude of candles, and arrayed in front of him was a group of silent and hooded figures.

“You’re not – vampires, are you?” he asked, nerves getting the better of him.

Unexpectedly this got a laugh; a ripple of giggles that spread through the group and suggested somewhat to d’Artagnan’s surprise that they were all women.

“Vampires aren’t real, silly,” said one of the closest figures, and he got a glimpse of golden hair and a fleeting smile from under her hood.

“Trust me when I say I’ve had weeks that makes that genuinely come as a relief,” d’Artagnan admitted. “Who are you then?”

“We are the Sisterhood du Mort,” said the first woman, letting her hood fall back so he could see her properly. “Worshippers of Lady Lilith.”

“You live here?”

More laughter, and he glared uncomfortably round at them before remembering he was here to ask for their assistance.

“We – work here,” said the priestess kindly. “Think of these halls of the dead as our offices, if you like. Now, you were looking for me, I think?”

“I need help,” d’Artagnan admitted. “I saw you, earlier. You looked like you were someone who might take me seriously.”

“You stood out,” said the priestess gravely. “You and your friend. Most people who pass through here – they are simply tourists, gawping at the bones for a cheap thrill.” 

D’Artagnan flushed, given that was pretty much what they’d been doing, but she hadn’t finished. 

“Your auras were unusual. You have been touched by darkness, I think. But somehow it has not diminished your light.”

“It’s because of my friend that I’m here. He was hurt today, after we left here. He’s in the hospital.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” said the priestess politely. “But we are witches, not nurses. He is, presumably in the best place. Will he recover?”

“That’s just it,” d’Artagnan said helplessly. “They say his injuries weren’t that bad. But he won’t wake up. I think – I think he might be in danger. Not medical danger. More – your kind. See, there’s this demon, Malphas - ” he broke off as a murmur of consternation ran through the group. “He reckons he’s got a claim on Aramis’ soul. I’m afraid he might try and take it, while he’s weak.” D’Artagnan ran though a shortened and slightly garbled account of what had happened to them, and looked pleading. “Can you help him?”

The priestess looked solemn. “While our powers are many, they are based in the earth, and the moon. We are not practitioners of more formalised ceremonial magick, nor, despite our surroundings, are we necromancers. And we do not treat with demons.”

“Then you can’t help? Or won’t?” D’Artagnan looked downcast, and she took pity on him.

“We cannot bring your friend all the way back. But we can perhaps give you something that will protect him from being taken any further.”

“Thank you!” 

“There will of course be a price...”

“Anything,” d’Artagnan promised recklessly, then winced. “Er, what, exactly?”

“Nothing it will pain you too much to give. And nothing you will miss.”

“Have you noticed how nobody ever gives a straight answer when it’s going to be unpleasant?” d’Artagnan demanded, and she laughed. He found himself smiling back despite himself. “Go on then. Tell me the worst. What do you want?”

“There are some ingredients that are more powerful than others when it comes to spellcasting,” she told him. “Amongst the most potent are certain – humours of the body, shall we say, that are even more valuable when given freely. We ask simply that you provide us, of your own free will, with a little of each.”

“Being?” d’Artagnan asked suspiciously. 

“Urine,” she said, surprising him slightly. “Blood. And - ” she waved a delicate hand in the direction of his groin. “The, er – generative fluid, shall we say?”

D’Artagnan was reasonably sure he heard one of the nearby witches stifle a snort of laughter. Weren’t secret underground covens supposed to be all serious and spooky he wondered, slightly aggrieved and trying hard not to look embarrassed.

“Um. Yeah. Okay.” Reminding himself that it could have been a lot worse. “So how, er - ?”

“Well, the first two are easily done,” she smiled. “As for the third – well, I’m sure there are those amongst us willing to assist, if you wish?”

D’Artagnan was flattered by the number of women that discreetly stepped forward, but he was also in something of a dilemma. Whilst not unattracted to women, he found the idea of having sex with a complete stranger rather off-putting, particularly while Aramis was lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Ironically it was something Aramis himself probably wouldn’t have had a problem with, and d’Artagnan almost laughed at the stray thought. 

His hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed, and the priestess stepped forward again before it could get uncomfortable. “If your inclinations lie elsewhere, there are other avenues.” 

D’Artagnan was slightly worried this meant they were going to produce a naked man from somewhere, but instead she drew a stoppered vial from the pocket of her robe.

“We call this Heart’s Desire,” she said. “As we are not to your taste, let your mind decide what is more pleasurable.”

Telling himself that they almost certainly weren’t intending to poison him, d’Artagnan opened his mouth obediently and she let a single drop fall onto his tongue. 

“Come this way.” 

He was lead into a chamber that opened off the main cavern. The stone walls were draped with gauzy fabrics, and it was furnished with a low bed and a small table. The table had been furnished with a stone jar and a little ceramic pot, and he felt himself blush all over again as he guessed what they were for.

“May I have your arm please?”

He turned to find the priestess was now holding a slim but wicked looking knife. One of the other sisters had followed her in, carrying a shallow dish. He found himself pushing back his sleeve without argument, and wondered what the hell had been in the potion they’d just given him that meant he wasn’t more worried about this.

“The knife is quite clean, and we only require a little,” the priestess promised him. “It should not scar.”

He watched in dazed fascination as she carefully made a small cut on his forearm, the blood trickling out into the dish. They could have killed him, he realised distantly. They could have opened an artery and he wouldn’t have made a single move to stop them. 

Almost before he registered that it was over, they were cleaning the wound they’d made and taping a dressing over the incision. He watched all this with docile interest, and the priestess smiled at him. 

“Thank you.”

“What do you use it all for?” d’Artagnan asked, trying to cudgel his brain into a semblance of life. He found the dull pain now throbbing in his arm had helped clear his mind a little.

“Urine for protection, and banishing. Blood for passion, and power. Semen for - ” 

“Fertility?” he guessed, and she laughed. 

“The life force is more than mere procreation. Picture the flower that cracks the pavement. The tree root that brings down the mansion. Think in terms of magical potential, rather than biology.”

D’Artagnan nodded solemnly, not entirely sure that he understood any of it, but in his fuzzy-headed state it felt like she’d revealed the secrets of the universe to him.

“What should I - ?” he broke off, belatedly realising he was now alone in the room. There was a heavy curtain over the doorway, and he could hear nothing from the outer chamber.

His lips felt tingly and he licked them self-consciously, suddenly hyper-aware of the drag of his clothing against his skin, the faint scent of incense, the warmth of the room.

D’Artagnan shrugged off his coat, and then because it was irritating his arm, took off his shirt as well. He paced around the room a couple of times, but nobody came back, and he guessed he was being left alone to get on with it.

“Well. Right then.” He could deal with one element of it easily enough anyway, and unfastened his trousers, picking up the stone jar and emptying his bladder with a certain sense of relief. Nobody disturbed him, and he set it carefully back on the table, eyeing the second vessel.

He still had his hand around his cock, and despite the fact the circumstances and surroundings should have been a mood-killer, whatever had been in _’hearts desire’_ was obviously potent stuff. Rather than refastening his trousers, he gave himself a couple of idle strokes. It felt disproportionately good and he was overcome with a sudden wave of arousal, stiffening rapidly in his hand. 

“Now there’s a pretty sight.” 

D’Artagnan tried to spin round, but his limbs felt slow and uncoordinated and he nearly stumbled.

“Aramis?” His cloudy brain struggled to figure out what was wrong with this picture. _Nothing’s wrong,_ part of him argued. _You want to have sex, of course Aramis is here._

“You look surprised,” Aramis smiled, steadying him with hands that were too warm and strong to be a figment of his imagination.

“Well. Yeah.” _Because you’re unconscious in a hospital bed about two miles away,_ thought d’Artagnan hazily. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Aramis murmured, leaning in to nuzzle a kiss against his neck. “Just enjoy it.”

D’Artagnan relaxed a little. In his suggestible state the words seemed eminently sensible, and his cock was definitely happy to be receiving some attention. He sank down onto the bed, Aramis in his arms, letting his mind wander.

“You’re beautiful.” 

There was something different about Aramis’ voice, and d’Artagnan looked up in confusion.

_“Athos?”_

Before he’d met Aramis, Athos had been the subject of a long standing infatuation for d’Artagnan, and he’d nursed an ardent crush on the man for months. It had faded once he’d fallen in love with Aramis, but the underlying attraction was still there.

“You’re not really here,” d’Artagnan mumbled, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. “You can’t be.”

“Does it matter?” Athos’ laugh was low and somehow conspiratorial, inviting d’Artagnan to share in the secret. There were lips on his throat and the prickle of beard, and d’Artagnan swallowed. 

“Athos.”

“Shhh.” Laughing eyes swam into his vision, and d’Artagnan wanted to say more, but couldn’t. He could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen Athos look this happy and relaxed, and it acted on him more powerfully than any aphrodisiac.

When Athos kissed him it was all he’d imagined and more. He kissed back, half-desperate, and Athos returned his caresses with a confident ease.

“But Porthos - ” d’Artagnan managed, too far gone to keep track of the fact this was likely all in his head, but still clinging to enough self-awareness to feel a sudden stab of guilt.

“Porthos wants you too,” Athos confided, looking up from where he was now deftly removing d’Artagnan’s trousers. 

“He does?” D’Artagnan was suddenly aware of another presence, someone settling on the bed behind him, wrapping strong arms around him.

“Of course.” Porthos’ familiar laugh seemed to rumble through his chest, and it suddenly occurred to him that nobody was wearing any clothes. They had been a minute ago. Hadn’t they?

“Um.” D’Artagnan felt he should probably be saying something but Athos had taken his cock into his hand and his brain gave up altogether. Behind him he could feel Porthos’ cock pressing snugly up against his buttocks, and now Aramis had come back too and was kissing him breathless.

D’Artagnan considered his options. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the knowledge that none of this was real, that if he made a concerted effort he could pull himself out of it. On the other hand that same knowledge meant he didn’t have to worry about any fall-out, and having satisfied himself that the experience could be judged safely guilt-free, he surrendered himself to the sensations with a sigh.

Porthos was a solid warmth behind him, his cock pushing between d’Artagnan’s thighs in a way that made him grind shamelessly back against him.

Athos was working d’Artagnan’s by now straining erection with fingers that were at once gentle and firm, occasionally supplementing things with a keenly judged flick of his tongue. Every time the soft, wet warmth around his cock somehow took d’Artagnan by surprise and made him moan out loud, bucking his hips and feeling Porthos laugh and pull him back against him.

Aramis was cradling his face, kissing him deeply and murmuring words of reassurance. D’Artagnan closed his eyes, giving himself up to the feeling of so many willing hands on his body. He wondered briefly if he should be doing something to repay all the attention, then figured balls, this was his fantasy and he was going to enjoy it.

Athos was sucking him in earnest now, and Porthos had two thick fingers inside him, and d’Artagnan wanted to make it last but could feel himself falling towards orgasm. His last memory before he was swept away on a wave of ecstasy was of seeing Aramis with his mouth around Athos’ cock and thinking that was typical of the man, before everything faded away into a warm comfortable darkness.

\--

When he awoke, d’Artagnan found he was lying on the bed, fully dressed and quite alone. He sat up, rubbing his face and trying to gather his thoughts. Had he imagined the whole thing? That was a question that had several different levels of possible answer, he conceded.

The aching cut on his arm was real enough, anyway, he thought. And – he looked over at the table. Both vessels had gone. That had to mean something.

When no-one appeared after a few minutes, he got a little shakily to his feet and pushed aside the curtain. The outer chamber was empty too, and he cleared his throat. 

“Hello?”

Movement at the far end proved to be the priestess returning. “Ah, you’re awake.” Behind her the other twelve sisters filed in quietly, and stood in quiet attention.

“You, um – get what you wanted alright?” d’Artagnan asked, trying for nonchalance and missing by a mile. The priestess gave him a knowing smile.

“I hope we both did.”

D’Artagnan wondered awkwardly whose hands if any had really been on his body, and decided it was better all round if he didn’t know. He’d have given a lot for one of those all-enveloping cloaks right now, to hide his blushes.

“Take this.” The priestess held out a delicate gold chain from which hung a small carved vial. “Hang it around the neck of the one you would protect. It won’t revive him, but it will prevent him being taken any deeper. It will anchor him to this world, make it harder for those that would steal him away.” 

“Thank you.” As d’Artagnan put it carefully into his pocket, another sister approached bearing a tray with a carved goblet. 

“Drink,” she encouraged. “You need to recover your strength.”

He look it with a dubious smile, and hesitated with it part way to his lips.

“It’s only wine,” promised the priestess, and he took a sip. It was good, and he drank the rest quickly, eager to get back to Aramis. 

Holding out the empty goblet, the waiting tray seemed to swim in front of his eyes and he stumbled. Unseen hands took the glass from him, and others caught him as he crumpled.

“Mostly wine,” amended the priestess, smiling beatifically over d’Artagnan’s now insensible form.

\--

He woke on a bench by the river, cold and cramped and with a pounding headache. His hand went instinctively to his pocket, and he slumped in relief as his fingers closed around the charm.

“Could you not just have blindfolded me again?” he muttered, struggling to his feet and trying to work out how far he was from the hospital. He was certainly a fair distance from where he’d entered the catacombs, and he wondered if the Sisterhood had a secret exit. It would explain why they hadn’t wanted him conscious for the journey out.

With no cabs available at that time of night it took him almost an hour to get back to the hospital, and he sank down at Aramis’ bedside with a feeling of relief that he was still where he’d left him, and that there’d been no obvious change for the worse.

D’Artagnan took out the charm and fastened it around Aramis’ neck with shaking fingers. “Is that it?” he muttered. “Is it working?” He’d secretly hoped for some outward sign such as the thing starting to glow, or even Aramis waking up, but nothing seemed any different.

He sighed. They’d warned him that it wouldn’t bring Aramis back, and he’d just have to trust that it was working as intended. He took Aramis’ hand and settled down to resume his vigil, feeling obscurely glad that Aramis had featured in his drug-fuelled fantasy. It was somehow reassuring to receive confirmation that your subconscious felt the same way about someone.

\--

The Rose and Crown was overheated and lively, with a darts match going on as Athos and Porthos walked in the following evening. Athos’ contact had been able to set up a meeting for him with the man looking for someone to join his ritual working group, and Porthos had insisted on tagging along. 

“How will we know which one he is?” Porthos asked, Athos having admitted that his source hadn’t been able to provide a name.

“They said he’d be in the back room, wearing a blue coat,” Athos murmured as they made their way through the crowded public bar.

“Beats a carnation I suppose.” Porthos followed him out into the narrow corridor where they stopped just shy of the door at the far end, close enough to see into the room beyond. It boasted a hatch through the wall to the bar, and a handful of tables and chairs that were mostly occupied by tipsily cheerful groups.

At a small table at the back, a man sat alone, seemingly in deep contemplation of his drink.

“Do you think that’s him?” Porthos muttered. Athos didn’t answer, and he looked round to find that Athos had gone deathly pale. “You alright?”

“I can’t go in there,” Athos said hoarsely.

“What? Why not?”

“I just – I can’t. That man – I’ve met him before. He’ll know who I am.” Athos looked quite ill, and Porthos reached out to squeeze his arm, suddenly worried he was about to pass out. 

“Does it matter if he does? What’s the matter? Who is he?”

Athos shook his head, backing away until he could lean weakly against the wall out of sight of the door. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I can’t go in there. I can’t do it.” 

“But what about Aramis?” Porthos objected.

Athos looked up. “You could go instead?”

“Me? What do I know about it? You’re the one who’s spent the last few years with his head in obscure books of magic.”

“I could coach you. Please Porthos, believe me when I say I can’t go in there.”

“But you won’t tell me why?” Porthos said, frustrated and confused. 

Athos just shook his head again, and Porthos groaned. “Alright. Fine, I’ll do it. For Aramis,” he added vindictively, and was immediately ashamed of himself when Athos hung his head. 

Porthos turned to peer into the back room again and braced himself to walk in. To his surprise, Athos caught his sleeve.

“Whatever you do, don’t trust him,” Athos said in a tone of quiet urgency. Porthos glared at him.

“This would be a whole lot easier if I knew what was going on. You’d better keep out of sight if you’re so bloody worried,” he added scathingly. “I’ll see you at home, yeah?”

Athos watched him go in, then turned sadly away. He felt like a coward, but the sight of the man sitting at that table had made him feel sick, and he’d known immediately he couldn’t go in there. The trouble was, if he’d told Porthos his reasons why then he’d have refused to go in either, that or marched over and throttled the man. And as nauseated as Athos was at the thought of it, he might be their only hope.

As he walked home, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed deep into his pockets, Athos reflected that there was still a risk Porthos would catch on. He’d told him the man’s name once, but it had been a long time ago, just after they’d first met. He had no reason to suppose Porthos would remember it, or make the connection.

\--

Porthos walked into the back room and straight up to the bar hatch, ordering a pint of beer and casually letting his eyes roam over the other occupants while it was being pulled, careful not to stare at the man who was their contact.

The man in question glanced up at him once, then circumspectly back again a few seconds later. Porthos gave him a cautious nod, and received a tip of the man’s glass in return. 

Paying for his drink, Porthos carried it over, and gestured to the free stool. “Anyone sitting here?”

“No. Although – I am waiting for someone,” came the cautious reply.

Porthos sat down cheerfully. “I reckon that might just be me. Nice coat, by the way.”

“Ah.” The man sipped his drink, nodding thoughtfully and looking Porthos up and down. “You’re not quite what I was expecting, if I may say so.”

“Oh?” Porthos took a mouthful of beer, bristling a little but trying not to come across as too confrontational.

“I was told to expect a professor. Forgive my preconceptions, I was picturing someone a little more – tweedy,” he said with a slight laugh, and Porthos relaxed again.

“Well, you can’t be too careful, in this game, can you?” Porthos said vaguely. “Actually, I’m a lawyer. Well, in training, anyway.”

“How interesting.” He looked as if he meant it. Porthos suddenly realised that the man’s eyes were different colours, one blue and one green. You didn’t notice it at first, but up close the effect was rather startling.

He realised he’d been staring, and cleared his throat. “Sorry, I should probably introduce myself. Porthos du Vallon.”

The man hesitated a second before accepting Porthos’ outstretched hand. “How do you do.” He sat back in his chair and studied him for a while, before seeming to come to a decision. “My name is Rochefort.”

Porthos gave him a bland smile, racking his brains to try and work out if Athos had ever mentioned the name before. It seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it. It certainly wasn’t anyone they’d discussed recently. 

The academic world was full of peculiar feuds, and all Porthos could think was maybe the man had once been rude about something Athos had written. He trusted Athos enough to have told him if Rochefort posed any actual danger, which must mean it was something relatively trivial, although he had to concede Athos wasn’t usually one for overreacting like that.

Porthos pushed the conundrum out of his mind and concentrated on the job at hand, determined to make a success of it now he was here.

“I hear that you’re looking for someone to join you,” he said in an undertone, although the room was noisy enough that there was little danger of being overheard. “Your, er – your group?”

“Yes.” Rochefort pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Do you have any experience?”

“A little,” Porthos said, hoping that Athos would be able to fill in any gaps in his knowledge before he had to prove himself. “Not really in a group though.”

“You understand you will be asked to take an oath of secrecy, if we deem you suitable to join us?”

Porthos nodded. “Fair enough. Can’t say I’d want it widely known what I was doing, either.”

“Quite.” Rochefort gave a dry laugh. “Can I ask then – what are your reasons for wanting to join us?”

Porthos drank more beer, considering his answer. Rochefort didn’t strike him as someone interested in communing with the infinite and finding inner peace. 

“I’ll be frank. My experience of working life so far ain’t been great. Too many barriers in the way for someone of my – class, shall we say. I suppose I’m looking for something to give me an edge.”

Rochefort nodded understandingly. “The ability to bend people to your will. To _demand_ the respect that you are due?” 

“Yes exactly,” Porthos agreed, finding he hardly had to fake the enthusiasm. He certainly wasn’t faking the grievance. 

“What would you say,” Rochefort drawled, drawing the moment out dramatically, with a sharp eye as to Porthos’ reaction, “if I told you that demonic forces were real?”

Porthos kept his face schooled in a mask of sober reflection, nodding slowly. His reply had to be carefully judged. _‘Yes, I know, I’ve met one’_ would almost certainly go down badly and be disbelieved, but neither could he risk appearing too sceptical.

“I would say that you were confirming something that I’ve long held to be true,” he said carefully. “But can you give me proof?”

“Oh, I think we can, yes. Almost certainly. I’ll be honest with you Porthos – may I call you Porthos? - we have been preparing for some time for a particular ritual that can only be carried out on the Spring equinox. That’s two nights away. The rite calls for a traditional coven of thirteen members, however one of our brethren has unfortunately left us at short notice, and unless we can recruit a replacement in time, we will be forced to abandon it for another year.”

“I’m your man,” Porthos said confidently.

“I wouldn’t normally rush these things, but in the circumstances, I feel I have little choice.” Rochefort nodded to himself. “If you are agreeable then, we will perform your initiation ceremony tomorrow night, that will at least give you a day to prepare for the main ritual.”

“Is there a lot to learn?” Porthos asked, worried he was going to be asked to memorise a long incantation, but Rochefort shook his head.

“Your role will be mostly symbolic, don’t worry. It’s a question of numbers more than anything. But the potential rewards are immense.”

“Not without risk, presumably,” Porthos muttered, wary of how casually Rochefort had mentioned using demonic forces.

“Nothing worth having comes free of risk,” Rochefort pointed out. “Or sacrifice. If you truly desire power over your fellow man, you must prove yourself worthy of it.”

Porthos nodded. “I can certainly see your point.”

“Picture the rewards,” Rochefort urged him, as if sensing Porthos might be wavering. “Imagine yourself being the man in charge for once, the man that people defer to. The man whose opinion is the one sought, the man who’s head and shoulders above his peers. Don’t you feel that life owes you this? Well I’m offering you the chance to take it.” Rochefort clenched his fist dramatically and Porthos found himself nodding along with him. 

Put like that, it all seemed to make a tempting amount of sense. Aramis had to be his priority, but maybe there would be other benefits to this he could take advantage of along the way. It couldn’t hurt.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

As Porthos let himself back into the cottage later, he wondered what his reception would be. Athos though, while seeming a little guarded, had occupied himself getting supper ready and as Porthos sat down hungrily at the table, asked him how it had gone.

“Okay, I think,” he reported, shovelling in a mouthful of pie and mash. “He’s arranging for me to be initiated tomorrow night.”

“Already?” Athos stopped with his own fork halfway to his mouth, looking surprised.

“That’s good isn’t it? We don’t know how long Aramis might have.” 

“Well, yes. Just a little unusual, I’d have thought. Normally these groups are a pretty close-knit fraternity. You must have made a very good impression.”

Porthos grinned, but honesty compelled him to add, “Well, that and the fact he needs someone in place pretty quickly for his ritual the night after.” He applied himself to his meal, forcing Athos to wait until he’d taken the edge off his appetite to elaborate.

“It’s ‘cause it’s the equinox, see. Has to take place the day after tomorrow.”

“Strange,” mused Athos, and Porthos frowned at him.

“Why?”

“The equinoxes are usually considered a still point in the year, a fallow time for magical practice. And they’re normally more significant to the practice of witchcraft, not demonology. I wonder what he’s up to?”

“Whatever, it’s good for us, right?” Porthos shrugged. “The way he kept banging on about demonic energies. He wouldn’t tell me the details yet but I’m fairly sure he’s going to try and summon one.”

Athos sighed. “I don’t like this. It feels off.”

“It was your sodding idea,” Porthos pointed out. “And also your idea to dump me in at the deep end, remember? Who is this bloke anyway, where’d you know him from?”

Athos just shook his head, and Porthos glared at him, trying to keep his temper. “Alright,” he said, making an effort to swallow down his irritation at the thought Athos was deliberately keeping something from him. “Initiation. Run me through it, what’s likely to happen?”

Athos pushed his plate away, his food mostly untouched. “Well, you’ll probably be asked to take some sort of oath or pledge of allegiance. They may blindfold you, possibly bind your hands. When they take it off, you’ll probably find yourself facing some sort of challenge, a sword being held to your throat or something similar. You’ll have to show you want it, that you’re worthy of it. There may be ritual nudity, possibly scourging.”

“Scourging?” Porthos had been listening to all this with increasing alarm. “As in - ?” 

“Probably a flail.” Athos gave him a thin smile. “Don’t worry, it’s all symbolic. They won’t actually hurt you. This is going on in masonic halls up and down the country, it’s pretty standard stuff.”

“For you maybe,” Porthos muttered. 

“If you’d rather not go through with it, we’ll find another way,” Athos said. “Maybe that would be better.”

“No.” Porthos folded his arms stubbornly. “I’m in, let’s see it through. Bloke seemed alright. Bit odd, but I guess that comes with the territory. Knew what he was talking about, anyway. Definitely a man used to getting what he wants, I’d say.”

“Yes,” said Athos quietly. “A very determined man. Very well, if you’re certain?”

“Have to be, don’t I?” Porthos said gloomily. “For all we know this is Aramis’ last chance.” 

\--

The first thing Aramis became aware of was the sound of lapping water. He opened his eyes into darkness, and thought at first that he’d woken in bed but that wasn’t right, because he was fully dressed and standing up.

He blinked a few times, and gradually his eyes got used to the dark. There _were_ lights here, he realised, faint orange flames that looked like they were floating. After a moment he realised this was an optical illusion, and he was seeing the reflection of them in black water.

Aramis took a step forward, intending to approach the nearest light, and water sloshed around his feet. He looked down and discovered he was standing in it up to his ankles. 

“Urgh.” Having noticed it, he immediately became aware of the corresponding facts that his feet were wet and cold. Where the hell was he? Looking around, he seemed to be in some kind of underground cavern. There were thick stone pillars at regular intervals, stretching off into the distance, and the water stretched off with them, black and oily looking. A water storage cistern, he wondered? The flickering lights were too low for him to see the roof, but he could see a slimy tide mark on the nearest columns, considerably higher than his head. 

Aramis shivered, abruptly grateful for the fact that the water was only up to his ankles after all. How had he got here? Where even was here? The last thing he remembered was walking along the street with d’Artagnan. Trying to recall what had happened next, he had a sudden memory of falling. 

He caught his breath, feeling disorientated and dizzy. There was something dreamlike about all this, but at the same time it felt too physically real to be purely in his head.

He looked down, trying to see if the water got any deeper or if he could safely wade through it, but all he could see was his reflection looking back at him from the still surface. 

As he looked the reflection of his face seemed to change, his hair receding and then his skin, withering and peeling back until there was nothing left but a skull grinning back at him.

Aramis jerked backwards and somehow the reflection came with him, the skeleton slowly rising from the water until it was standing in front of him. It was clothed in rotting velvet and fine jewels, and was one of the most sinister things Aramis had ever seen.

“Who are you?” he demanded shakily. "What do you want?"

The skull continued to grin at him, although Aramis had to concede its range of facial expressions was going to be limited.

“You know who I am.”

Aramis clucked in disgust. “Malphas.” He should have guessed. The demon had pulled that skeleton stunt once before, in a mirror.

“You should kneel in the presence of your God.”

“In the presence of my God, I would. You, however...” Aramis looked around in hope of escape, but the cavernous space stretched off into what felt like infinity in all directions, with nothing to see but the flicker of torchlight on black water, and the endless pillars. 

“Am I dead then?” he asked, managing to sound as if he didn’t much care. 

“Such an unfortunate accident,” Malphas crooned. “Such wasted potential. But you must come with me now.”

Aramis sighed. He’d hoped to avoid this, hoped that his faith would be enough to protect him, or that Athos would have come up with a way to break the bargain. But they’d apparently run out of time.

“What if I refuse?” he asked.

“Then we revert to the alternative offer I made, and I claim the souls of your three friends as well,” Malphas declared with relish. “Please, do feel free to refuse me.”

Aramis nodded heavily. It had been worth a try. “Is this purgatory?” he asked, figuring that to keep the demon talking at least meant postponing whatever agonies lay ahead.

“Your human terms are meaningless to me.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t understand them,” Aramis pointed out. “Where are we?”

“Between your world and mine. A liminal space.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Very little, all things considered.” Malphas was starting to sound distinctly irritated. “Now follow me.” 

Aramis took a step after him, then felt something pluck sharply at his throat as if he’d walked into a hidden wire. “Ow!”

Malphas looked back at him. “Now what? I haven’t done anything to you yet.”

“Something – I’m caught on something,” Aramis said in a puzzled voice, his hand feeling around his neck for a thread he could feel but not see.

Malphas stalked back to glare at him, then made a turning gesture with his hand. Suddenly Aramis could see it, a thin golden line stretching from his throat away into the darkness. It shone brightly in the gloomy space, and although he didn’t yet understand the significance of it, his spirits lifted.

“What is it?”

Malphas ground his teeth angrily. “A tether.” He flicked at it with one bony finger and it vibrated like a harp string.

“A tether? Tethering me to what?” Aramis demanded.

“Life,” admitted Malphas, grudgingly. Aramis took a step away from him.

“You never actually answered when I asked if I was dead, did you?” he realised. “Are you saying I’m not?”

“You would have been, if you’d followed me. Damn interfering witches.” 

Aramis took another step backwards, realising anew how treacherous this creature was, and how much words mattered here.

There was a low buzzing sound, and Aramis ducked instinctively as something flew at his face. A large hornet zipped past to land on Malphas’ jewelled crown, then climbed down to crawl across his bony jaw. Aramis shuddered, but it also triggered a memory.

“It was you! You made me fall in front of that truck!” 

“Your point being?” Malphas enquired.

“You promised. You promised you’d do nothing to hasten my death,” Aramis said indignantly. “You lied!”

“I’m a demon,” said Malphas, drawing fiery circles in the air with an air of boredom. “It’s kind’ve what we do.”

“If you broke your word that means the bargain is forfeit,” Aramis declared firmly. “You have no claim on me.”

Malphas gave a nasty laugh. “Well, I’d better be going then. Good luck getting out of here on your own. Call me when you give up.”

“What do you - ” Aramis broke off. Malphas had gone, in the space it had taken him to blink. “Mean?” he finished lamely.

The cavern seemed bigger and darker than ever now that he was alone again. He wondered if it was just his imagination, or if there really were fewer torches alight than before.

\--

At the office on Monday, Porthos found it hard to concentrate. Staring endlessly out of the window at the cold spring rain showers lashing the street, his mind kept returning to what might be in store for him that evening. The phrase ‘initiation ritual’ conjured up all sorts of worrying images, and while Athos had been reasonably confident it would be mostly a formality, Porthos couldn’t help being nervous.

After the disappointments of the previous week, his work too seemed somehow dissatisfying and a let down after all his hard graft. He'd been so thrilled to get the position here, but he was barely doing anything more worthwhile than when he'd worked as a clerk. Rochefort's words about commanding respect went round and round in his head, and he wondered again if the situation might somehow be turned to his advantage.

He'd said nothing of the direction of his thoughts to Athos. Their brief interaction that morning over breakfast had felt a little strained, with Athos gloomily preoccupied and Porthos irritable.

When he finally escaped from the office at four o’clock Porthos debated going straight to the address he'd been given and not going home at all, but reluctantly conceded this would made Athos worry unfairly.

He also had an hour to kill before he was expected, so Porthos went back to the cottage to change his clothes and grab a quick bite to eat. 

Having been prepared to be conciliatory in his approach, he was annoyed all over again to discover that Athos wasn’t even home from the university yet, and in fact didn’t come in the door until Porthos was preparing to leave.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Porthos demanded, knowing full well that Athos’ Monday tutor groups were generally over by three. 

“Speaking to d’Artagnan,” Athos told him as if it was self-evident and Porthos winced, vaguely recalling that Athos had in fact mentioned over breakfast that he was going to try. 

“Took ages to get the call through,” Athos continued. “Sorry. I did mean to be here earlier.”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Porthos mumbled. “How is he? Aramis?”

“Stable,” Athos nodded. “And d’Artagnan thinks he’s managed to put measures in place to buy us some time, although he was a bit vague about the details. But as for the rest it sounds like it’s up to us.” Athos caught Porthos’ expression, and it was his turn to wince. “You,” he amended apologetically.

“I’d best be getting on with it then.” Porthos pulled on his coat, and Athos walked with him to the door. 

"Find out if they have a particular demon in mind," Athos counselled. "And if there's any way we can direct them to raising Malphas."

"Yeah thanks," Porthos said sourly. "Because I'd never have thought of that."

"And whatever Rochefort promises you Porthos, don't trust him."

"Why not?" Porthos glared at him, prickling a little with guilt despite the fact Athos had no way of knowing Rochefort had promised him anything. "I mean of the two of you, he's the one giving me answers right now. He's not the one hiding things from me, is he?"

Athos sighed but held his tongue. "Just – be careful."

"Yeah." Porthos had already turned away brusquely, his hand on the door ready to leave, but then he faltered. He stood there for a second just staring at the woodwork, then looked round. Athos was watching him silently, his expression shuttered and Porthos groaned.

"Oh come here." He reached out to pull Athos into a hug. Taken by surprise, Athos wrapped his arms around him and hung on with a relieved intensity.

"I just hate the idea that there's something you feel you can't tell me," Porthos said quietly. 

"I know," Athos whispered. "All I can do is ask you to trust me when I say I have good reasons." 

Porthos nodded resignedly. "I'd better go. I'll see you later, yeah?" They kissed each other goodbye and parted in better temper, although neither looked happy.

\--

To his surprise the address Porthos had been given proved to be a disused theatre. He looked up at the boarded over windows and faded, peeling advertisements for plays that had folded a decade earlier, and told himself the involuntary shiver was just down to the unseasonably cold weather and not a creeping sense of foreboding. 

“Porthos!” 

Startled, he looked round to find Rochefort leaning in the doorway, and wondered if he’d been there the whole time. Porthos plastered on a smile and walked to meet him, figuring that the man would in any case be expecting him to look a little nervous. They shook hands, and Rochefort ushered him in through a door that seemed to have been forced open and then re-secured with a length of chain. 

“I do like a man who’s punctual,” Rochefort declared with a false sort of bonhomie. “Come this way. The others are all here.”

Following Rochefort across the mildewed public lobby and down a passage, Porthos wondered if he’d deliberately been given a time later than everybody else, to give them space to prepare for him. He’d expected to be lead into a room full of people, but instead Rochefort took him down a maze of passages to a tiny windowless cupboard that had presumably once been an actor’s dressing room.

The space was bare but for a rickety table holding a candle in a glass lantern, and a robe hanging from a nail on the wall. Rochefort gestured to this with a sly smile.

“Change into this, please. Someone will come and fetch you in due course.”

“Just the robe?” Porthos clarified, wondering if he was allowed to put it on over his clothes.

“And nothing else,” Rochefort confirmed. “You are shedding your outside life, remember. You are abut to be reborn as one of our brethren. We are all equal, in the circle.”

He departed, leaving Porthos staring at the chipped paintwork on the back of the door, and reflecting that in his experience, some people were inevitably more equal than others. Still, he was here for a reason, and quickly took off his clothes, piling them neatly on the table. The floor was covered in what looked like rat droppings and he was glad there was somewhere to put them, wondering if he was allowed to keep his shoes on. 

The woollen robe was scratchy but warm and Porthos was grateful for it. The building felt cold and damp, and creaked ominously around him. He couldn’t hear any other people in the vicinity and wondered if that was better or worse than the ominous chanting he’d half-expected.

Eventually there was a knock on the door and he pushed it open, finding to his surprise there was a woman standing outside. Unlike Porthos’ dark grey robe she was wearing a long red dress with enough lace and flounces to make the naked candle she was holding a severe fire risk. 

Her face was obscured by a veil, and before Porthos could speak she lifted a finger to her lips and gestured for him to follow her.

She lead him back through the corridors and he noticed rather enviously that she at least had shoes on. Their route lead through the ticket hall and up a sweeping flight of stairs, the evening sun pouring in from above through a cracked but still-impressive skylight.

Porthos followed her through a set of double doors at the top, padded with mouse-chewed velvet. Inside, he realised they were at the back of the auditorium and guessed she’d lead him on a more circuitous route than strictly necessary to impress, disorientate and generally over-awe him.

Approaching from this angle the impact was certainly more striking than emerging from the wings would have been. Porthos could see a semi-circle of robed figures waiting silently for him on the stage below and swallowed nervously. They were each holding candles, but as he watched they all simultaneously blew them out. 

Porthos was plunged into utter darkness, and realised with a jolt that the woman who’d lead him in had blown out hers at the same instant. 

His own breath sounded loud in his ears and he could sense nothing but the faint smell of smouldering candle-wick and damp upholstery. Porthos stayed where he was, waiting for something to happen.

It didn’t take long. He felt something settle over his eyes and almost jumped, before he realised it was a blindfold. This was followed by the slither of a velvet cord over the back of his hand as his wrists were bound together. They were tied firmly but not uncomfortably tight, and after a second Porthos felt a hand in the small of his back, giving him a little push forwards.

He took one faltering step, then another. In bare feet, and naked under his robe, he felt more horribly vulnerable than he could ever remember. Was he expected to fumble his way all the way to the stage, he wondered?

Another touch, this time on his sleeve, guided him to something that proved to be a length of thin rope. Porthos took the hint and started shuffling along, letting it slip through his fingers. The floor was level and mercifully free of obstacles and splinters, but being unable to see and having his hands tied made Porthos feel remarkably unsteady.

After what felt like an age he stubbed his toe against an unexpected barrier and almost fell over. Feeling cautiously with his bound hands, he discovered what felt like a flight of steps and guessed he’d reached the stage.

With difficulty Porthos hoisted the hem of his robe out of the way and inched up them on his bottom, not caring how stupid he looked to anyone watching if it meant he didn’t fall over.

Reaching the top he stood up cautiously and was relieved when a hand reappeared at his elbow to guide him forward.

There was a glimmer of light now around the edges of the blindfold, and he guessed the candles had been re-lit.

“Who dares disturb the sacred circle?” The sudden accusatory demand made him jump, but the voice clearly belonged to Rochefort and Porthos remembered Athos predicting a formal challenge.

“I do.” Porthos wondered if he was supposed to give his name, but a second question came hard on the heels of the first, and he assumed his answer had been acceptable.

“And who dares seek the wisdom and the power of the Goat and the Serpent?”

“I do,” declared Porthos again, more firmly this time.

“And do you come naked and penitent, humble and blinded, a worm of humanity seeking the light of infernal deliverance?”

“I do,” Porthos agreed, reflecting gratefully that the freezing English spring was probably responsible for the fact that naked in this case was more metaphorical than literal. Although he was finding it remarkably draughty.

“And are you brave enough in spirit to face down the guardian of the gateway?” Rochefort intoned.

“I am,” Porthos confirmed, wondering what the fuck this was going to involve.

Without warning the blindfold was abruptly ripped away and he took in a confusion of images. The stage was ablaze with candles, many more than had been burning before and the sudden brightness made his eyes water. All around him sinister cowled figures were arrayed about a table that was clearly laid out as an altar, holding a terrifying looking goat-headed statue and a steaming chalice.

Most worryingly of all, there was a gleaming sword blade levelled at his throat.

As soon as the swordbearer was sure he was aware of its presence, the blade moved closer and Porthos felt its sharply honed edge prick at his skin.

Porthos tried not to flinch, suspecting that backing down would signal instant failure.

“Do you seek the knowledge of the ancients?” came Rochefort’s voice from somewhere to the right. Porthos didn’t dare turn his head to look.

“I do.”

“Then show yourself worthy, and drink of the True Blood.”

Porthos hesitated. Presumably this meant the chalice on the altar, but the sword wasn’t wavering, and if he moved he’d cut himself at the very least.

He breathed in deeply through his nose, and stepped forward.

Immediately, the sword swung away and he found he could walk unimpeded to the altar. Struggling to keep his bound hands steady, he lifted the golden cup and tried not to think about what might be in it. Surely not actual blood, but you never knew. Or it could be drugged, or poisoned, or…

Porthos lifted it to his lips and swallowed down the contents. It amounted to perhaps only two full mouthfuls, and to his faint relief appeared to be warmed red wine and nothing else.

“Welcome, brother Porthos!” Rochefort had pushed back the hood of his robe to reveal his face, and lifting the sickle from the altar he sliced symbolically through the cords binding Porthos’ wrists. 

The woman who’d been his guide also stepped forward to take the empty chalice from him, introducing herself as sister Letitia. She’d lifted the veil from over her face, and gave him a welcoming smile. The rest of the group kept their hoods up, and Porthos noted with slight envy that everyone else appeared to be wearing clothes and shoes under their robes. Still, he supposed he was the one being inducted here.

Now he had the chance to breathe a little more easily, Porthos looked around. The circle of candlelight meant it was impossible to see into the darkness beyond the edge of the stage, but it made for an effective setting and the acoustics meant everything rang out dramatically.

The chalice had been refilled when he wasn’t looking, and Porthos suspected there was a bottle under the table, hidden by the altar cloth.

Apart from the chalice the altar contained the sword, the nasty looking sickle, an old book bound in cracked red leather, two thick black candles, and the goat-headed statue he’d noticed before. 

As Porthos stared across at it, he thought he saw a malevolent red flicker deep in its eyes, and shuddered. Before he could look closer though, his attention was drawn back to Rochefort. 

Porthos had assumed that the initiation was finished, but that proved not to be the case, as he was then subjected to almost a further hour of oaths, prayers, chanting, and having his forehead and wrists anointed with holy oil.

This last he was presented with in a small bottle, and told he would need the rest later. 

“Now, we may finally act as one,” Rochefort declared to the group when Porthos had been inducted to everyone’s satisfaction. “And tomorrow night will see the culmination of everything we have been working towards.”

For Porthos’ benefit, he outlined the structure of the planned ritual and to Porthos’ uneasy satisfaction confirmed that it would indeed involve the raising of a demon. 

“It will not be without its risks, but I know you are all with me when I say the rewards will be great,” Rochefort declared to a rising murmur of approval from the group, as they prepared to depart the stage. “And there is one more thing I want you to do for me tonight. Consider it as groundwork for tomorrow.”

Porthos listened in uncomfortable surprise to what Rochefort required of them, and wondered what Athos would make of it. He would have to tell him, although judging by some of the sniggering conversations going on quietly around him, not everyone present intended to be so forthcoming with their partners. 

“And you, Porthos, as our newest acolyte, will you do us the honour of reading the invocation tomorrow?”

Startled out of his reverie, Porthos nodded at once. He hadn’t dared hope for such an opportunity to influence the direction of the ritual or what they would be calling upon, but accepted the sheet of paper Rochefort handed him without demur.

“Excellent. I have to say, I am very pleased with you so far Porthos, I feel we have made an excellent choice,” Rochefort informed him. “From this point forward you will see a marked improvement in your fortunes, let me assure you. Wealth, respect, position, sex, whatever you desire you will be able to command. How does that sound?”

“Like everything I ever wanted,” Porthos said honestly, and Rochefort slapped him approvingly on the back.

And that, thought Porthos, watching him walk away, was the problem. Rochefort was offering too much, making too many promises. Even without Athos’ warning, Porthos decided he wouldn’t have trusted the man. If he’d been more circumspect, made mutterings about the potential rewards without actually guaranteeing anything, Porthos might have found it all more plausible, but if life had taught him anything it was that you never got something for nothing. There was always a price. He just wasn’t sure yet what Rochefort’s was going to be.

He decided he needed more information on the man, so having once changed thankfully back into his own clothes, he sidled out of the dressing room in search of further intelligence.

A rustle of skirts at the far end of the narrow passage suggested Letitia had just gone past, and also, interestingly, that she wasn’t headed back to the stage. Porthos followed, and discovered a steep flight of steps through the door at the end that lead right up to the roof. 

Creaking wood above suggested Letitia was going all the way up, and so Porthos followed at a careful distance. Pushing open the door at the top, he found himself on a narrow parapet with a stunning view of the city and the setting sun.

Contrary to his suspicions Letitia was alone, and doing nothing more incriminating than smoking a cigarette.

There was nowhere to hide, but she waved at him cheerfully enough. 

“Alright love?” Letitia pulled her shawl more tightly across her ample bosom in defiance of the cold breeze, and gestured at Porthos with a crumpled cardboard packet. “Want a ciggie?”

“No, thank you. I just came out to get a breath of air,” he explained, and she nodded understandingly. 

“Don’t blame you. All that bloody incense, enough to make you cough up a lung.” 

Porthos smiled, venturing right out onto the roof. In the last of the daylight he realised that Letitia was at least ten years older than he’d originally assumed, although the most unexpected thing was the broad Yorkshire accent. 

“First time at one of these things?” she asked sympathetically, and he nodded. “Yeah, I can tell.”

“You’ve been doing this for a while, have you?”

“Thirty years, more or less,” she admitted, and Porthos revised his estimate of her age a bit further upwards. “Different groups, mind. They’ve all got their little ways. Bit different when I was a slip of a girl.” She sniggered. “Backwards over the altar twice a night sometimes.” 

“Er – right,” Porthos stammered, and Letitia winked at him.

“That’s what half of ‘em are all about, really. Nowt but dress-up and sex. Or else it’s half the town council making dodgy deals in between funny handshakes. Even our man Rochefort’s got his theatricals, see?”

“What do you mean?” Porthos asked, not seeing at all, and hoping he didn’t come across as too nosy.

“Oh, well, those eyes of his for one. He puts chemicals in one to change the colour. It’s not a natural look you know,” she said slyly, and lit a second cigarette from the butt of the first. “And that damn stupid statue. Red glass lenses, and a candle inside the skull.”

“Right,” Porthos nodded with some relief, although it was tinged with disappointment. “Is he just another fraud then?”

“No.” Letitia drew the word out thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t say that. There’s definitely power there. I’ve seen things – not nice things, necessarily, but – yeah, he can make things happen okay. All the window-dressing just sets the mood, you know? Makes it easier for things to come through.”

“Are you the only woman?” Porthos asked curiously. He hadn’t seen everyone’s faces so couldn’t swear to the gender of all those under the robes and cowls, but Letitia was the only one in a dress.

“Yep.” She sucked vigorously on her cigarette, making the tip glow like a hot coal. “Rochefort’s not keen on women see, in any sense. But he knows he needs one. For the balance, like. He claims he knows Crowley, of course. Very big on his scarlet women, Crowley.”

“Crowley?” Porthos shook his head, feeling out of his depth and suspecting that Athos would have been able to keep his end up in this conversation far better.

“Aleister? ‘World’s Wickedest Man’ and all that rot? You must have seen the papers.” Letitia cackled. “Biggest self-publicist in the country. I don’t know if Rochefort did meet him, but I grant you they’d’ve got on. Them and their little predilections.” She laughed again but didn’t elaborate.

“What did you mean about Rochefort not liking women?” Porthos prompted, sensing that she wasn’t going to volunteer anything else, but was open to gossiping if pushed.

“Oh, well, you must have noticed. Some groups it’s an even split see, men and women. Some it’s nearly all women, naked from ankh to anklet like as not, and one very smug magister. Some’re an all-boys club, of course. And you can do it with any set-up, if you’ve got the will, and the ability. Same as baking really. You don’t like an ingredient, you can leave it out, but it’s going to be harder to cook.” 

“That’s what tells you he’s genuine about all this if you like,” she added, suddenly serious. “He’d rather not have to trust anything to a woman, but the ritual structure says he needs one, so here I am. Not got the imagination to re-write things see. But anyone can follow a recipe.” She winked, ground out the stub of her cigarette on a nearby gargoyle, and disappeared back into the stairway.

\--

Downstairs the ritual apparatus had been cleared away and the rest of the group had changed back into their outdoor clothes. 

“Well, have fun tonight gentlemen,” Rochefort advised them with a knowing smile, as they filed out of the lobby. “I know I will. I think I might find myself a nice little undergraduate for the occasion.”

Letitia frowned at him. “You control yourself. Last thing we need’s the police involved again.”

Rochefort gave her a scathing look, but didn’t dignify this with a reply and swept out of the door.

“What did you mean about the police?” Porthos asked. Letitia looked guilty, as if she’d forgotten Porthos was still there. 

“Nothing. Just my little joke. You coming?”

They walked out together, Letitia locking the outer door shut behind them with a length of chain and a padlock.

“What does he do, Rochefort?” Porthos probed. “For a living, I mean?” Sensing that she wasn’t going to be forthcoming on the subject of whatever sexual misdemeanours Rochefort was partial to, but might be more loose lipped on a safer topic.

“He claims he’s got a degree from one of those foreign universities,” she told him, lighting another cigarette. “Although I’ve never been entirely sure if that’s true. He can talk the talk though. Makes his money convincing people to pay him to give speeches. Telling ‘em what they already know, half the time.”

“Sort of visiting lecturer you mean?” Porthos said, then wondered why the phrase rang faint bells. 

“That’s right. Gets them to put him up in all sorts of comfort, and there’s us scratching round for digs. But he don’t like staying in the same place long.” She snorted. “Afraid someone’ll cotton on to his nasty little habits I expect.”

But Porthos had stopped listening. Just like that, he’d finally remembered the context in which he’d first heard Rochefort’s name, and felt abruptly sick to his stomach.

When they’d first met, Athos had been a repressed and initially reluctant lover, party because of having been disowned by his family once they discovered his inclinations, but predominantly due to a subsequent sexual encounter that had left him brutalised, guilt-stricken and afraid of intimacy. And Porthos was increasingly, horribly certain that Athos had once told him that man’s name had been Rochefort.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

Left alone, Aramis splashed despondently through the shallow water towards the nearest flickering torch, reasoning that he might feel better about the creeping shadows if he had his own source of light. 

He'd assumed they were set into the base of the pillars, but as he got closer the flames turned out to be just a reflection on the surface of the water. Confused, he looked around him and up into the darkness above, but couldn't work out what they were a reflection _of_. 

Undeterred, he made for the next pillar, then the next, but however solid the burning torches looked from a distance, when he got there they were never anything more tangible than a reflection on the water.

Aramis kicked irritably through the nearest image, making it shatter into a thousand tiny dancing flames before slowly reforming. He sighed. The water wasn't deep enough to be a danger, but it was enough to make walking that little bit more of an effort and meant he couldn't sit down to rest without becoming thoroughly soaked.

He considered his position. Malphas had said there was no escape, but that didn't necessarily mean it was true. He tentatively reached up to touch the gossamer-thin tether around his neck. It had seemed robust enough when subjected to Malphas' inspection, but it looked so delicate he was afraid of breaking it. 

It hummed slightly under his fingers, and Aramis wondered suddenly if he could follow it out. It lead off into the darkness, picking out a possible route through the otherwise directionless space.

It was worth a try, he decided and with a little more hope in his heart, he set out.

For what felt like hours Aramis followed the golden thread through the cavern, sloshing past countless pillars and wishing he had something to mark them with. Everywhere looked so alike that he was eventually seized by the fear he was simply walking past the same set of columns in a recursive loop, and doomed to repeat the same steps for all eternity.

He was tiring too, his forward progress becoming more of an effort with every step until he realised with faint horror that this was due in part to the water getting deeper. 

Wondering if he was simply walking over a sloping part of the floor he retraced his steps a short way, relieved to note this didn't appear to place undue stress on the tether. The water level remained obstinately deeper than before, and he cast a nervous look at the crusted tide-mark on the nearest pillar. It was well above his head.

Deciding that he might as well continue with the original course of action he'd committed to, Aramis pressed on. The water level continued to rise, and soon it was swirling around his thighs. His one point of relief was that the nebulous lights continued to flicker just above the surface and Aramis tried not to think about how much more awful it would be stuck here in complete darkness.

When the water was up to his waist Aramis stopped, listening hard. Since Malphas had vanished there'd been no sound other than the splashing caused by his own progress and the forlorn dripping of the dank atmosphere, but now there was a new noise to break the monotony - that of cascading water.

Judging direction down here was hard, but he was finally satisfied that it was coming from the way he was heading anyway, and pressed on. 

Now that he'd noticed it, the sound seemed to get steadily louder and before long he came across a place where water was indeed pouring into the chamber. To his disappointment it wasn't issuing from any visible outlet but seemed to be cascading from unseen apertures in the ceiling.

Aramis viewed the falling curtain of water with a sinking heart. He'd hoped for some kind of large pipe that he might have had a chance of crawling up against the flow, or at the very least to find a wall, something to prove this seemingly endless cavern had a boundary after all.

By now soaked to the chest he briefly considered giving up, but it wasn't in his nature. He wondered if the water would eventually become deep enough to carry him out itself, assuming he could remain afloat long enough. The cold would be a problem, and he refused to entertain the possibility that there might be _things_ in the water with him.

Aramis wondered if it was even possible to drown here. He assumed that technically his physical body was still somewhere else, although he suspected death down here would equal death up there just as effectively and didn't much fancy finding out.

For want of anything else to do he continued following the line of the tether, and having spluttered his way past the unpleasantly cold waterfalls, made a discovery that finally made his heart leap with hope. On the side of one of the columns, a set of iron rungs was set into the stonework. 

It was the first sign that there might be a way out after all, and he quickly hauled himself up out of the water.

The novelty soon wore off. Out of the water he felt immediately colder, and his sopping clothes dragged heavily. The iron rungs were rusted and sharp under his hands, and the cold magnified the pain of everything tenfold. 

The ephemeral lights at water level cast no illumination after a certain point, and Aramis was soon experiencing the disconcerting sensation of climbing into almost utter blackness. The only point of relief came from the tether which gave off a faintly golden glow, and while it wasn't enough to see by it provided him with huge comfort.

Aramis climbed on and on, arms aching and hands bleeding. He didn't know how high he'd come, but knew it was far enough that falling now would almost certainly be fatal whether there was water below or not. He seemed to have swapped the tedium of walking through the cavern below for the new monotony of the infinite climb. 

The end came unexpectedly, when he banged his head on something so sharply that he almost lost his grip. Heart racing, he clung to a flaky iron rung with one hand and cautiously explored above with the other. His first disappointed thought was that there was no way through, and faced the possibility of having to climb all the way down again. Then his questing fingers found the shape of a rusty bolt, and after a considerable struggle during which he twice nearly plunged to the unforgiving water below, he finally managed to force it back through its housing.

The next effort was to push his way up through what proved to be a crushingly heavy trapdoor, but by working his way high enough he managed to take the weight on the back of his shoulders and lever it up just enough to pass underneath.

There was nothing but darkness beyond, but the ground seemed level and solid and Aramis crawled through thankfully, letting the trapdoor slam shut again behind him. 

It was warmer here, wherever he was, and the echoes of his laboured breathing seemed to indicate a much smaller space than he one he'd left.

There were other noises too, once the hammering of heart and lungs had calmed enough to let him notice them. All around him there came a vague shifting, slithering noise, and now he came to think about it there were things squirming against his legs. 

Something unseen scuttled over his hand and he jerked it back in disgust, struggling to his feet. He wished he could see where he was. He had a box of matches in his pocket, but they were soaked and useless. 

The only light came from the tether still stretching out before him and he cupped his hands around it, wondering not for the first time what it was. It wasn't solid like a string, but it had a resistance to it when touched, and he managed to curl a loop of it around his fingers where it shone like a faint halo. It was clearly intended as a measure of protection, and Aramis wondered if it could be encouraged into letting him see his surroundings. 

In this in-between realm, magic should theoretically produce physical results more easily than the material world, and Aramis saw no reason it shouldn't work for him as well as Malphas. 

He tried to push the fear of the dark and the things it contained out of his mind and concentrate on the Word and the Light of God, focussing on the ring of light in his hand. 

_"Fiat lux."_

Somewhat to his surprise, it worked. The pale glow from the line abruptly increased and he blinked painfully. He was standing in a narrow passage that stretched off in either direction, with what looked worryingly like crypt niches set into the walls. 

Before he could examine these more closely, he made the mistake of looking down and cried out in horror. The noises he'd been hearing had been made by a moving carpet of squirming wildlife - hideous looking bugs, worms and enormous centipedes all improbably tangled together in a revolting morass.

Hastily brushing a few leggy bodies from his clothing, Aramis kicked a space through the creeping horrors to expose the square of the trapdoor. He'd half-expected it to have vanished, but the lines were still visible in the stone floor - except they were set flush, with no physical means of lifting it from above. 

With no retreat possible back the way he'd come, Aramis faced the fact he was going to have to brave the passage. The tether stretched to the right so he took that direction, stamping his way irritably through the chittering insects before they could climb up his trouser legs.

All too soon, Aramis discovered that the seething insect life wasn't the only horror the tunnel had to offer. He'd shuddered at glimpses of skeletal remains in the burial niches to either side of him but being preoccupied with where he was treading was taken by surprise when one bony hand abruptly reached out and snatched at him as he passed.

"What the hell?" Aramis pulled out of its grip, only to walk backwards into the arms of another. Suddenly teeth were snapping close to his ear and he jerked away to find a skull leering at him, bony fingers clawing at his face.

He increased his pace, stumbling further down the passage, running the gauntlet of a hundred screaming skulls. They were a gallery of grotesque horrors, the pitted yellow bone stained with old blood and crawling with insects. 

In an effort not to panic Aramis started reciting the Lord's Prayer under his breath, getting progressively louder as more and more of the nightmarish things tried to bar his way. 

The corridor seemed endless, but he was getting used to the dimensions of this place now and was determined not to give up too soon. Death at the hands of these unnatural fiends was not an appealing one, but fortunately they seemed incapable of actually chasing him and he discovered if he kept his momentum going he could power through the forest of clutching hands.

Exhausted, aching, and having passed right through sheer terror and out the other side into simply numb, Aramis finally saw a door up ahead.

One last supreme effort and he was scrabbling at the bolts, heaving it open and hurling himself through, slamming it thankfully on the horrors behind.

His feet landed in a couple of inches of water. Aramis looked down in surprise, then up again with a sense of slowly impending doom. 

Ahead stretched a water-filled cavern with endless pillars. He slowly turned around, and noted with the bleak weight of inevitability that of the doorway he'd just come through, there was no longer any sign.

\--

As soon as Porthos walked in the door that night Athos could tell something had changed. Porthos took off his coat, then just stood there staring at him as if not knowing what to say or where to begin.

“Porthos? What’s wrong?” Athos asked. “What happened, did it go alright?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, it was fine. Fully paid up member of mysterious cloaks anonymous now.” Porthos hesitated. “It’s just – I finally figured out who he is. Rochefort, I mean. I know why it couldn’t be you.”

“Ah.” Athos hesitated, staring at his hands, and Porthos came over, took them into his.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because we needed him. We needed him to admit you to the circle,” Athos said tiredly. “He had to trust you. If I’d told you who he was – what he’d done – you’d have been angry with him. He’d have sensed it.”

Porthos shook his head helplessly. “Athos – Jesus.”

“You do see why it had to be you now?” Athos said apologetically. “He’d have recognised me. Probably. I don’t know, maybe he’s not given me a second thought from that day to this. But I couldn’t risk it. And – and I couldn’t bring myself to be in the same room as him,” he confessed in a lower voice.

Porthos enveloped him in a hug and just stood there holding him. “You never told me what he actually did?” he ventured after a while.

Athos shook his head defeatedly. “Nothing that I wasn’t stupid enough to allow.”

“That doesn’t mean you welcomed it though.”

Athos sighed. “He hurt me, alright? He hurt me, used me and humiliated me. Is that enough, or do you really want details? Because I’ve spent long enough reliving it for one lifetime, thank you.”

“I’m sorry.” Porthos drew him close again, resting his cheek against Athos’ head. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’d never mean to upset you, you know that.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You never asked for any of this, it should have been me.”

“Bollocks. You think I’d make you go through that? Anyway, I can be just as good a sorcerer as you.” Porthos nudged him. “I could be a saucy sorcerer if you like?”

Athos raised a smile at that, but shook his head. “Thank you for that mental image, but I’m afraid I’m hardly in the mood.”

“Ah.” Porthos looked shifty, and Athos frowned. 

“What?”

“Well, it’s just – thing is – we were asked to do something, you see. To prepare for tomorrow night, sort of thing. Something to do with connecting everybody in the group on an aetheric level.”

“And?” Athos prompted suspiciously. 

“Well he told us all to have sex. Not with each other!” Porthos added hastily. “I mean – separately, With whoever – you know. Our partners were. More specifically, he said we had to aim to, er,” he faltered, conscious of Athos’ gaze on him. 

“Go on,” Athos persisted, intrigued despite himself by the fact that Porthos seemed so embarrassed by what was, after all, a fairly innocuous request given that it only seemed to involve pre-existing relationships.

“Well there was this set of stipulations you see,” Porthos admitted. “We have to prepare ourselves first, like with ritual washing? And to do it all in silence, including the sex. And, um – we have to aim to come while the clock’s striking midnight.” He mumbled the last bit, and Athos stifled a laugh at the expression on his face.

“All seems fairly standard,” was all he said. Porthos’ head came up in surprise.

“It does?”

Athos shrugged. “Washing before a ritual’s common enough. Keeping silent focusses the mind. The time constraint focuses the group. Intercourse is a recognised way of raising and releasing energy.”

Porthos blinked. “Is it? Remind me to take a closer look at some of those books you’ve been reading.”

“It’s not all dusty Latin,” Athos smiled. Porthos took heart from the fact he seemed quite sanguine about it all, and risked pushing the point.

“So – could we – ?” 

“I suppose so,” Athos conceded with a smile. “Wouldn’t want you to mess up your first set of homework prep, would we?”

Porthos hugged him, and gave him a grateful kiss. “You sure?” he checked. “Given where the instructions came from and all that? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Athos kissed him back firmly. “I’m sure,” he promised. “I’m going to bed with you, not Rochefort.” 

\--

Having equipped the bedroom with a ring of candles to set the mood, Porthos had left Athos to go to bed alone while he prepared himself. Shutting himself into the bathroom downstairs, he ran a deep bath and sank into it with pleasure. He’d lit candles in here too, and the wavering shadows gave the room an unfamiliar depth and atmosphere.

Porthos lay back in the water, trying to empty his mind and concentrate on the task ahead. Making love to Athos was no hardship but when he tried to picture it, unwelcome thoughts of Rochefort sadistically hurting him kept pushing in instead. Porthos frowned, trying to push them away. It had happened years before they met, Athos had been a lot younger, perhaps less able to stand up for himself. _But he still couldn’t face the man_ , Porthos’ brain pointed out. _He’s not over it, whatever he claims._

He wished Athos had told him from the start who he was dealing with, but understood why he hadn’t. That made Porthos feel guilty too, that Athos had felt he had to keep quiet so as to not jeopardise Aramis’ chances of redemption. He should have been the one person Athos could confide in about anything.

Porthos started washing himself, the rhythmic strokes of the flannel helping to clear his mind. Concentrate on the positives, he told himself. They’d been through a lot together, he and Athos, good and bad, and come through it all stronger than ever. That Athos was willing to sleep with him even after the shock of seeing Rochefort told Porthos how much Athos trusted him, and he reminded himself that whenever things had got really bad, it had been love that had pulled them through it.

Picturing Athos waiting upstairs made Porthos finish his ablutions more quickly, and by the time he’d towelled himself roughly dry he was starting to get an erection. As he worked the anointing oil over his body he felt a spreading warmth from inside, his pulse quickening with anticipation. By the time he’d emptied the bath and blown out the candles, he felt filled with a quiet purpose.

Upstairs Porthos paused in the bedroom doorway, trying to maintain a suitable mindset but slightly derailed by the image Athos presented. For the purposes of tonight, the part of _his_ scarlet woman would be played by a bespectacled academic in a cotton nightshirt, and Porthos had to fight the inappropriate urge to laugh.

Athos looked up from his book and promptly let it fall closed at the sight that met his eyes. Porthos was entirely naked, and as well as freshly bathed he appeared to have anointed himself with some kind of oil. His skin gleamed in the candle-light, and Athos couldn’t help but notice that he was already half hard.

Remembering just in time that he was supposed to remain silent, Porthos joined Athos on the bed, moving the unheeded book to the nightstand. Gently removing Athos’ reading glasses, he cupped Athos’ face between his hands and kissed him reverently. He was conscious that Athos hadn’t initially wanted to do this, and was determined to make it as good as possible for him.

For his part, Athos had certainly come round to the idea. He helped Porthos lift off his nightshirt and lay down beneath him, opening his arms invitingly. 

There was enough time before midnight that nothing had to be rushed, and they spent a long while kissing and caressing, moving against each other with the languid passion borne of long familiarity. 

It was slowly occurring to Porthos how much they normally talked to each other while they were making love, and he worried about how to ensure Athos was okay with everything when he couldn’t ask him.

Sensing his difficulty, Athos finally guided Porthos between his legs himself, kissing and nodding to show that it was very much okay for him to proceed. Theoretically there was nothing stopping Athos from talking himself, but he didn’t want to make Porthos slip up by automatically answering him and the hushed atmosphere itself seemed to discourage unnecessary speech.

Soon Porthos was moving inside him, hot and slow, slick with the anointing oil. Porthos had worried that it would feel wrong, doing this as part of an exercise that was ultimately designed to bring about the raising of a demon, but it didn’t. It felt right. It felt, in fact, like an act of worship.

At a minute or so to midnight, Athos touched Porthos’ arm, indicating the time with a slight nod towards the clock on the wall. Porthos glanced up at it and gave him a breathless smile, grateful not only for the warning but also the implicit indication that Athos was okay with him seeking his own release.

He shifted position, gathering Athos closer into his arms and thrusting more forcefully into him. Normally, this way round he would have made sure that Athos came first, and there was something guiltily liberating about the licence to be selfish for once.

Outside, the first of the town clocks started striking the hour and he caught his breath, bracing his palms on the crumpled sheet beneath and pounding harder between Athos’ legs. By the sixth stroke of the clock he felt Athos start to come, and as the chimes of three other churches joined in on the eighth stroke he felt like the bells were in his very brain, his whole body shaking with the vibrations. 

Porthos had lost count of the chimes; there seemed to be countless bells ringing in his head, his whole body shuddering as he buried his face in Athos’ neck and came inside him, pulse after pulse that left him gasping for breath and feeling like he’d just been hit by lightning.

One by one the church bells fell quiet and they slumped into each other’s arms, kissing now in mutually exhausted affection.

“Did you feel that?” Porthos panted, tingling all over from the afterglow, and feeling about ten feet tall.

“What?” Athos shook his head questioningly, sensing that Porthos wasn’t just talking about the sex. He could hardly had failed to feel that after all, and was glad he’d changed his mind about it, but Porthos seemed to have experienced something on top of their shared climax. 

“It was like – something electric, running through my body,” Porthos said, trying to find words to explain the sensation. “Like I’d been plugged into a circuit. You didn’t feel it?”

Athos shook his head again with a wry smile. “But then, I’m not part of your circuit,” he pointed out. “I’m just your vessel.”

Porthos frowned. “You’re more than that,” he protested, worried that Athos was feeling used, but Athos pulled him back into his arms and kissed him, laughing quietly.

“That wasn’t a complaint,” he whispered. “I’m yours. I love you.”

Porthos squeezed him tight, still riding high on the rush and starting to laugh from exhilaration. “I love you too. God, that was amazing.”

“It was,” Athos agreed. “Circuit or no circuit. Thank you.”

“What for?” Porthos smiled, nuzzling kisses into his neck. Athos had sounded too serious to have just meant the sex, which had after all been a joint effort.

“For reminding me that I’m not who I was any more,” Athos said softly. “And that I don’t have to be afraid of who I am.”

\--


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis stared around the familiar cavern in disbelief. As far as he could see, black water lapped at the base of countless stone pillars.

“Oh, you’re kidding me.” He sagged in defeat and disappointment. To have gone through all that just to return to his starting point was crushing. 

“Malphas? Malphas you bastard!” he yelled, his voice echoing mockingly back to him from the depths of the cavern.

“You called?” said a dry voice behind him and Aramis whirled, finding the demon leaning against a nearby pillar. He was still choosing to appear as a skeleton, his jewelled robes winking in the torchlight. Aramis glared at him.

“Ready to concede?” Malphas enquired politely. “Or did you just want a chat?”

“Are you telling me there’s no way out of here?” Aramis asked, trying to keep a clear head. Words were important, he reminded himself. Get unambiguous answers.

“On the contrary, there are two ways out,” Malphas replied. “Your mistake is in assuming them to be physical exits that can be found by looking.”

“So what are they?”

“Well, on one hand you can follow me, and assume your rightful place in Hell,” Malphas offered, extending a bony hand in invitation. Aramis snorted, and he withdrew it again gracefully. “On the other, I could, if I chose, send you back to your physical body.”

“Both of those involve you.”

“Correct.”

Aramis hesitated. “I couldn’t follow you even if I wanted to,” he said, indicating the golden tether.

“Oh, you could break it easily enough if you wanted,” Malphas told him. “I just can’t break it for you. Annoyingly.” He clacked his teeth unsettlingly at Aramis, who frowned.

“So you can’t force me to come. But you’re hardly going to send me back, either. Are you?” 

Malphas considered. “I might be prepared to come to an arrangement. How’s this: I will allow you to resume your life, for your allotted span – without further interference,” he conceded with an ironic bow, “if you will agree of your own free will that I may claim your soul when you finally die.” 

He put his head on one side and looked at Aramis speculatively. “I mean, I’m going to get it anyway. If you refuse, you’ll just have to stay here until your physical body withers and dies, at which point your little protection spell there will cease to work. I’m giving you the option of having the rest of your life back.” He grinned. “In return for your death, as it were.”

Aramis was shaken. The temptation to accept was enormous, the thought of escaping from here, getting his life back, of fresh air and sunshine – it was all he wanted. His nerves were strained to breaking point, he was exhausted with no hope of rest, and it could all be over within seconds if he agreed to Malphas’ proposal. 

Except – except if he did, then there would no longer be any hope. No chance of Athos finding some obscure way to break the bargain, no way of avoiding eternal damnation. And he realised now, that however slim that chance had been, it had been what kept him going, what allowed him to function. Without that, what would life become? A hollow sham full of dread with no hope of redemption.

But it would at least be life, he argued inwardly. Malphas was right, if he didn’t accept what did his future hold then? How long could his uninhabited body survive, how long before he died in the real world? Days? Hours even? He would gain nothing and still end up in Hell.

And yet, he held his tongue. There was a thread of suspicion tugging at his mind that he couldn’t ignore, and he wondered why Malphas had made the offer in the first place. He’d had no need to, he could quite easily have waited for Aramis to die down here, which meant Malphas must somehow benefit from Aramis giving up his soul voluntarily. 

Had the demon genuinely forfeited the bargain by causing the accident in the first place? Or was it that the others were, after all, close to finding a way to break it themselves? The tether had been nothing to do with him after all, which meant that at least somebody on the outside was working to protect him. It would explain Malphas’ sudden impatience to get him to agree, if he was in danger of losing out altogether.

In the end, it came down to who did he trust more; a demon, or his friends?

“No.” Aramis made up his mind.

“No?” echoed Malphas coldly.

“No. I maintain that my soul belongs to God alone, and you have no just claim on it or right to take it,” Aramis said. 

“You are making a mistake.”

“Possibly. But I’ve got a feeling I’d be making a bigger one if I conceded anything to you.”

“Then you will die down here,” Malphas snapped. “And when I come to claim you, your torments will be legion.” He spread out his arms, yellow bone draped in rotting velvets. “But I am generous. You will at least not have to spend your last hours alone.”

When Malphas dropped his arms again the water began to bubble and seethe, and Aramis looked down in horror as all around him the skeletal inhabitants of the tunnels emerged from under the surface, reaching out for him hungrily with sharp bony talons. 

Malphas himself had vanished, but his voice lingered on the stale air. 

“I’ll make sure you live just long enough to wish you were dead.”

\--

Tuesday dragged past even more painfully slowly than Monday had, but as evening finally arrived and Porthos prepared to leave for the ritual he felt nerves prickling in his stomach like a meal of pins.

He wasn’t the only one; if anything Athos was even more antsy than him at the thought of what lay ahead. He’d managed to speak briefly with d’Artagnan again that afternoon, and been told that while Aramis was stable, he appeared to be getting weaker as the days went past. He’d warned him that tonight might see a change, and to be on the alert – although whether it would be a change for the better or worse, Athos hadn’t been able to promise.

“I wish I was going with you,” he sighed.

“Too late for that,” Porthos said, pulling Athos into a hug to take the sting out of his words. “Besides, you were right. If Rochefort’d recognised you as someone with a grudge against him he’d never have let you in.” 

“Be careful,” Athos pleaded, and Porthos kissed him.

“Always.” 

When Porthos had gone Athos paced the room anxiously for a couple of turns, until he became aware of a faint but frantic scratching noise. 

Puzzled, he traced it to the front door where he came to the inescapable conclusion it was the sound of a determined if invisible cat trying to get out.

“You’re a ghost,” Athos said exasperatedly. “Presumably if you want to go out a little thing like a door’s not going to stop you?”

The scrabbling continued, until he opened the door with a sigh. There was a brief scrape of claws against the sill, and he felt rather than saw something dash out into the night. 

Athos stuck his own head out and looked down the street to where Porthos was just turning the corner out of sight. Closer to him, he caught the sudden gleam of green eyes in the darkest shadow of the wall opposite, and then they too were gone.

“Are you following him?” Athos murmured to himself, not entirely sure what help the little ghost could be but rather touched. Then he considered the insistent way she’d got him to open the door again, and frowned. “Or do you want me to?”

At this point it was all the encouragement he needed. Grabbing his coat, and after a moment’s reflection a sharp knife from the kitchen drawer, Athos was soon following quickly in Porthos’ footsteps.

Porthos had described the location to him just in case things went wrong, which at least meant Athos could hang back far enough that Porthos wouldn’t see him. He’d discounted making himself known, unsure if Porthos would consider his presence less of a help than a hindrance. 

The theatre was located on an otherwise deserted block; the buildings around looked empty and equally run down and there were no working streetlights.

From across the road, Athos watched Porthos walk inside. There was a dull glow coming from the lobby each time the door opened, and as he stood there several more men appeared out of the twilight gloom and furtively slipped inside.

After a few minutes when no-one else had arrived, Athos crept across and pulled the door open. There was nobody in sight and he stepped inside, wondering what to do for the best. He could hide in the auditorium, although then he ran the risk of being spotted. He'd be safer up in the dress circle, but then he'd be too far away to intervene should the need arise.

The outer door creaked behind him just as footsteps sounded from the corridor ahead, and Athos looked round wildly for somewhere to hide. There was a door to his left and he shoved it roughly, relieved when it scraped open. He found himself in the old ticket office, its window boarded over and the floor scattered with torn and faded playbills. 

He didn't dare close the door behind him in case the movement was seen, but there was a teller's window through to the foyer and he put his eye to the crack in the closed hatch. Outside, a man muffled in a thick coat and scarf was scurrying past just as a man in a dark floor-length robe emerged from the inner corridor and scowled at him. 

Rochefort. Athos tensed, but the newcomer was safely holding his attention.

"You're _late_ , Carville," Rochefort drawled.

"Have you seen the traffic out here?" Carville protested indignantly. "Three buses went past me without stopping. Three! Why couldn't we do this at the weekend, that's what I want to know?"

"I wholly doubt the inhabitants of the inner planes care remotely about your transportation issues," Rochefort declared irritably. 

"Yeah, well I'd like to see one of them flag down a number fifteen at six o'clock on a Tuesday night," Carville muttered, although not until Rochefort had safely passed through the inner doors. "Then I'd really believe in miracles." 

He went down the passage that Rochefort had emerged from, and after a moment's consideration Athos followed him. He was increasingly worried about what was going on here, and Carville's words had done nothing to reassure him. 

If Rochefort was to be believed, tonight hinged on it being the vernal equinox, a fact Carville could hardly have failed to be aware of - if it was true. If it wasn't, that meant Rochefort had already lied to Porthos, and that gave Athos grave cause for concern.

He trailed the oblivious Carville to the rear of the stage area, and after checking that the coast was clear, sneaked up to peer into the dressing room he was using to change. The door wasn't quite closed, and noting that there was a key in the lock, Athos saw his robe hanging from a nail just inside the door. 

Carville had taken off his coat and scarf and was currently trying to struggle out of a thick woollen jumper. It seemed to have caught in one of his shirt buttons judging by the muffled noises of irritation, and Athos took advantage of the fact he couldn't see anything to lift the robe from its hook and quietly push the door closed. He quickly turned the key and pulled the robe over his head, pulling the hood up to hide his face.

At the end of the passage there was another door that he also managed to lock, and wedged a nearby chair with a broken wicker seat pad under the handle for good measure.

He could hear voices now and followed them through the wings to emerge on the stage, shuffling unobtrusively forward to take up a place amongst the rest of the anonymous hooded figures. Trouser legs and outdoor shoes protruded from the bottom of all the robes and he was relieved that Porthos' prediction they would all remain clothed had been correct.

"Ah, Carville, nice of you to finally join us," came Rochefort's scathing welcome. Athos gave a silently apologetic bow and was relieved when Rochefort dropped the matter. He'd at least heard Carville speak, but was thankful he didn't have to attempt the man's rather nasal whine. 

No one else gave him a second look, their attention being firmly on the small group standing at the edge of a wide circle marked out on the stage in chalk and what looked like lines of salt. The only people with their faces exposed, they were Rochefort, a woman that Athos assumed must be Letitia, and Porthos. 

Porthos paid no attention to the late arrival of the last member of the group, his thoughts being occupied by the fact that Letitia had produced a set of cords and was indicating that she wanted to tie his hands again.

“What for?” he hissed under his breath, having assumed that the ritual binding the day before had only been for his initiation.

"It's just symbolic," Letitia murmured with an apologetic smile. Despite his considerable misgivings, Porthos trusted her more than he did Rochefort, so let her proceed without further complaint. 

She looped the cord around his neck and then tied his hands behind his back with the ends, which meant his throat was now bared at an uncomfortably vulnerable angle. He had to keep his wrists raised awkwardly high behind his back to stop the cord cutting off his air and shot an urgent look at Letitia, hoping to signal he needed her to at least lengthen it, but she’d turned away.

Porthos tried to pull his wrists apart, trying to slacken his bonds. The day before, Letitia’s knots had been fairly loose, but now his movements caused them to tighten painfully, cutting into his skin. 

He swallowed down a flare of panic, trying to breathe slowly and calmly. There was no indication anyone here meant him harm, they were simply professional people like himself, drawn to the idea of achieving tangible magical results. And they needed him didn’t they? To complete the circle, to invoke the infernal entity they were counting on to answer their prayers. 

He concentrated instead on the words he’d spent most of the day trying to memorise, and the subtle alterations he and Athos had discussed that would summon Malphas rather than the lesser demonic presence Rochefort had been targeting.

Around him, the group began chanting. 

Athos intoned the words along with them, recognising the form as one he'd studied himself. It had always been his secret end-of-the-line last resort, that if all else failed he would attempt the summoning by himself. He'd never admitted as much to Porthos, but had believed he owed it to Aramis to try.

The atmosphere seemed to thicken, and Athos didn't think it was just down to the clouds of pungent incense. The temperature in the otherwise cold, damp theatre was now unpleasantly hot, and the air within the circle shimmered.

At a nod from Rochefort, Porthos took a deep breath and recited the words of the final invocation. As he spoke them aloud, the edges of the circle crackled and flared up in a ring of blue fire that burned without heat and he could feel the rhythm of the chanting carrying him along, like an underlying charge to the final spark.

A form was slowly taking shape within the circle, and as the chanting built to a crescendo it abruptly snapped into focus, a solid form towering above them. It was humanoid, but covered with reptilian grey scales and had short horns protruding from its head. 

The last time Malphas had manifested he'd looked relatively human, and Athos wondered if this development was designed to be purposely terrifying, or simply because this was what most of the people in the circle expected a demon to look like. Either way, he didn’t appear to be in a very good temper.

"Who dares summon me?" Malphas roared, picking out Rochefort as the likely culprit and bending to squint accusingly at him. "I was just getting to the good bit."

"My Prince." Rochefort looked simultaneously terrified and triumphant, and Athos accorded him a reluctant amount of respect for not passing out on the spot. There was a lot of frightened muttering around him, and Athos got the distinct impression that not half of the men present had expected this to actually work. Rochefort's next words however, left Athos frozen in alarm.

"It is not I who summons you, but this man," Rochefort told Malphas slyly, indicating Porthos. "And he who will pay your price." 

Letitia appeared at his side bearing a red cushion on which lay a deadly looking knife, and Rochefort took it up with a ceremonial flourish.

Athos tensed. He was still clutching the kitchen knife he’d grabbed on the way out, but it felt woefully inadequate in the face of such a weapon.

"You what?" Porthos tried to duck back as Rochefort raised the knife. This wasn't looking symbolic at all, and he looked frantically at Letitia, who shrugged.

"Sorry pet."

She'd set him up, he realised with dim horror. She'd confided in him, got him to trust her, to the extent he'd let her tie him up, and all along she'd been fully in league with Rochefort's plan to murder him.

"Hold him!" Rochefort ordered, and two figures stepped forward from the circle to seize Porthos by the arms, pinning his struggling body in place.

Porthos squirmed and heaved, but to no avail. Ordinarily he’d have been more than a match for them, but tied and off-balance they had the advantage. The truth came crashing down like a physical blow – that from the beginning this had always been leading up to his sacrifice. It was why his acceptance and induction into the group had been both so easy and so rushed, he’d accepted almost without question the illusion they’d presented of necessary haste before the equinox – but they’d wanted an outsider, someone disposable. Someone, he thought with rising anger, that they had considered would barely be missed by society.

Still standing with the rest of the circle, Athos braced himself to intervene. If it came to a fight there were too many people, but he would at least have the element of surprise. If he could free Porthos before anyone reacted perhaps they could outrun any pursuit. If they were lucky, and if Malphas didn’t interfere. Athos wasn’t sure how far the circle would curtail his powers and didn’t much fancy finding out. 

Rochefort adjusted his grip on the dagger; Malphas leaned forward in eager attention, having by now recognised Porthos. Athos tensed, the handle of the kitchen knife feeling slippery under his hand.

“Wait!” 

At this unexpected interruption everyone including Malphas turned to look into the wings in surprise as a dishevelled man in shirtsleeves stumbled out onto the stage. It was Carville, Athos realised, having finally broken his way out.

“One of these men is an imposter!” Carville shouted, pointing wildly at the assembled group with a shaking finger. 

For the moment Athos stayed frozen in place as Rochefort stared at the new arrival, his blade still poised. “What’s that you say?” 

“I was ambushed, man! Someone locked me in and took my robe! Somebody’s here under false pretences!” He was striding through the circle now, even jostling Porthos and his captors out of the way in his determination to get to Rochefort. 

For his part Rochefort looked down, shrugged once, then thrust up with the knife in a killing blow. The whole room went still in shock as Carville gurgled horribly then fell backwards to the floor, eyes staring sightlessly.

Guessing it would only be moments before he was unmasked, Athos took advantage of everyone’s temporary paralysis and darted forwards, pulling Porthos back towards him and quickly sawing through his bonds. 

Porthos’ eyes went wide when he saw who his rescuer was. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He gave a choked laugh. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

“Thought you might need a hand,” Athos murmured, flinching as Rochefort irritably yanked back his hood and someone else knocked the knife from his grasp.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Rochefort demanded, then frowned. “Hang on, don’t I know you?”

Athos was saved from answering by a sudden yelp from Letitia. They all turned to see what was the matter, and she pointed at the ground. Carville’s blood, which had been pooling on the boards, had reached the edge of the circle and was now rapidly following it round, soaking into the carefully laid salt and tracing the intricate symbols in lurid scarlet.

“Quickly. Positions,” Rochefort snapped, waving an imperious hand at them. Porthos stared at him incredulously.

“You were prepared to knife me a minute ago!”

“Yes, yes, well consider this your lucky day. Look, I need enough people to make this work, are you in?”

Porthos exchanged a look with Athos, who gave him a tight and reluctant nod. “Yeah, okay. We’re in.”

They fell back into line with the others, the living circle reforming around the one laid out in chalk and salt.

Malphas, who had been watching the arguments and subsequent murder in the manner of one appreciating a mildly entertaining diversion, suddenly sensed a change in the atmosphere and roared in startled affront. 

“What have you done?” The spreading blood had finished its circuit, and the crackling witch-fire abruptly flared from blue to red.

Rochefort smiled nastily. “Well, I think we’re done with the preliminaries. We called, you answered, the disappointingly incompetent Carville has, I trust, paid your appearance fee.” 

“Do not fool with me, mortal,” Malphas warned.

“Oh, I’m quite serious. You see, that circle is traditionally designed to keep you safely inside it, stop you getting any unpleasant ideas. Well, the addition of certain symbols, activated by a frankly ridiculous amount of blood – means that now not only can you not step outside, it, neither can you go back the way you came.”

Malphas snarled, and clearly attempted to do just that. The fact that he was still there a moment later came as a surprise to him, and from the amount of murmuring from the rest of the circle, as a surprise to most of them too.

“Release me,” Malphas ordered. “Or I will turn your miserable forms inside out.” He clenched his fist and the corpse of the unfortunate Carville convulsed, ripping slowly open from the stab wound and peeling back on itself. 

Two men broke away from the circle gagging, and this was enough to frighten the rest into full scale flight, imagining that the same thing was happening to them. Soon the only people left in the hall were Rochefort, Letitia, Athos and Porthos. 

Athos averted his gaze from the ruined body on the floor and looked at Malphas instead. 

“You could only touch him because his soul had been given to you. I’m guessing the fact we’re still standing at all means that’s about your limit.”

Malphas glared at him. “You. Always were too smart for your own good. Didn’t help your friend Aramis though, did it Athos? Do you know what I’m doing to him, right now, as we stand here?”

Rochefort turned to look at him, frowning. “Athos? I do know you from somewhere. Did I fuck you once?”

Athos ignored him, but Porthos could see that his fists were clenched tight.

Malphas grinned, a smile that was full of razor-sharp teeth. “Release me from the circle, Athos. Release me, and I’ll eat him for you.”

Athos shook his head. “Do I look stupid? Release you from that circle, you’ll kill the lot of us.”

The demon turned to Rochefort. “You look like you’ve got more sense,” he declared, which Porthos privately considered to be proof, if proof were needed, that demons lied a lot. “Release me from the circle, and I will grant you whatever you desire.”

“Well yes,” Rochefort drawled sourly. “That was the general idea. I desire power, and you will give it to me. I want the whole world to know my name!”

“He doesn’t mean let him go back to Hell,” warned Athos. “He means let him out of the circle.”

To his relief, Rochefort’s sense of self-preservation was apparently just stronger than his sense of greed, and he looked unsettled at this idea. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “No, you will grant us your favour or you will be imprisoned for all eternity.” He looked round and Letitia handed him a large stone jar with the head of a jackal.

“This was once used to contain the remains of a pharoah for thousands of years,” Rochefort declared. “And unless you do as we demand, it will become your prison for the rest of time.”

“Then as I will last aeons longer than you, we shall all sit here until we rot,” Malphas told him. He flicked an assessing look at each of them, then addressed himself to Athos. “But as that would be tedious for all concerned – I propose an alternative. Let me out of the circle, and I’ll relinquish my claim on Aramis. _And_ , you and Porthos may here leave unmolested.”

“What about us?” Letitia protested. Malphas leered at her. 

“You and Rochefort I get to keep.”

“No!”

“How about it?” Malphas enquired pleasantly of Athos. “Neither of them mean anything to you, in fact they were prepared to murder your friend. And you get what you wanted, I assume.”

Athos went pale. He looked at Porthos, who shrugged helplessly. “Up to you,” he whispered. “I’ll back you whatever you decide, you know that.”

“And what would that make me?” Athos whispered back. “Condemning two souls to save one?”

“Aramis may not have the time left for us to indulge the finer feelings,” Porthos reminded him. 

“No. I won’t do it. I can’t. And I don’t care what he says about guaranteeing our safety, it would be tantamount to suicide.” Athos looked pleadingly at him, and Porthos nodded.

“Alright. For what it’s worth, I agree.” 

Athos breathed a sigh of relief, and they exchanged a bleak smile.

\-- 

Aramis backed away through the shallow water as the skeletons advanced on him. They moved with jerky lunges, snapping at him with broken teeth and snatching at the air with hands twisted into bony claws. 

One rose up behind him and Aramis threw himself sideways, escaping its awkward grab by inches. They were herding him, he realised, toying with him. He would only be able to evade them for so long, he was tired already from his long and pointless attempt at getting out of here. All too soon they would catch him, and then what? Tear him to pieces? Drown him? Where had they come from, were they the remains of people like him, people who’d failed to escape this place?

Aramis faced the fact that his fate might well involve becoming one of these things if he died down here, and it gave him a burst of renewed determination to survive. He kicked the nearest skeleton backwards into a group of its fellows and turned to run.

Behind him he could hear the screams of pursuit, and experienced a thrill of terror as he realised that the next time they caught him, there would be no more pretence at playing with their prey.

\--

Rochefort had been trying to follow the whispered conversation between Porthos and Athos, and suddenly turned to Malphas. “What about us? Does the same deal stand? If I let you out, will you guarantee my safety?”

“And mine!” Letitia put in quickly, and Rochefort rolled his eyes. 

“And hers.”

“Of course.” Malphas beamed, forked tongue flickering on the air as if enjoying the taste of treachery.

“You’re insane,” Athos declared. Maybe they all were, he thought darkly, for ever imagining they could deal with demons.

Rochefort moved to break the line of the circle with his foot, then drew back with a cry of surprise as the crimson witch-fire abruptly flared green. Something had walked through the trail of blood in front of him and was leaving neat red pawprints across the boards.

Malphas hissed and made a turning gesture with his hand. Suddenly a cat was visible, a sleek tabby with bright green eyes, who looked up at Malphas and hissed back at him.

“Witch!” declared Malphas.

Rochefort frowned. “No, that’s a cat.”

“Witch!” Malphas made a more complicated gesture, and abruptly where the cat had been standing was a young woman, stark naked and rather startled.

\--


	6. Chapter 6

For a second nobody could do anything but stare, then Athos hastily removed his robe and offered it to her.

She gave him a fleeting smile of thanks.

“Who are you?” Porthos asked, confused.

“My name is Jennet,” she said, and his mouth fell open. “I’m a witch. At least, I was. _He_ \- ” she jabbed an accusing finger at Malphas - “turned me into a cat about – hang on, what year is it? About three hundred years ago.” She frowned. “Seemed longer in cat years.”

“Why did he do that?” Athos asked. But then, he thought, Malphas’ magic had often involved animals.

“He’d taken over the magister of my coven. He was trying to get us to bring him through into manifest being. I stopped him.” She tilted her chin up proudly. “But his last act of revenge was to transfigure me. When I died, I couldn’t pass on. I’ve been looking for a chance ever since, to regain my own form.”

“You weren’t already there in the house when we moved in, were you?” Athos realised. “You followed us.”

“I’d sensed his presence, but I was too late,” Jennet told him. “But you were trying to find a way to summon him again, so I stuck around. And I followed you here tonight.”

“Hang on,” Porthos interrupted. “Are you telling me she’s been sleeping on the end of our bed for the last three years?”

Jennet gave him an innocent smile. “Don’t worry. I was a cat. Mostly I was thinking about cat things.”

He glowered at her, then realised with a spike of guilt that he’d just exposed their sleeping arrangements to Rochefort and Letitia. Fortunately, nobody seemed interested.

A sudden roar made everyone jump. Malphas was testing the strength of the circle, flinging himself against the wards with a force that was making the stage creak and dust and plaster rain down from the ceiling in drifts. 

Athos looked nervously at the floor, wondering what would happen to the containment spell if Malphas dropped right through the rather rotten wood of the stage. Technically he was trapped in a bubble rather than behind a vertical wall, but if the boards holding the chalk, salt and blood marking out the circle gave way...Athos averted his eyes quickly, remembering that this whole mess had come about in the first place because Malphas had picked a thought out of his mind. He didn’t want to be giving him ideas.

In response to Malphas’ attempts to break out, Jennet raised her hands. There was a smokiness about the air between her fingers and she began chanting in a low, determined voice. The words were strange, although here and there Athos picked out a phrase in Latin, and then another in what sounded like Anglo Saxon. He’d have given a lot to be able to discuss the working practices of her original coven, and wondered if there would be time later. 

A gusting wind had risen from nowhere and was following the line of the circle until the grains of salt were starting to move with it.

Porthos grabbed Athos’ arm in alarm, but he shook his head, trusting instinctively that Jennet knew what she was doing, and did not mean them harm.

The whole circle was soon a whirling vortex of salt, smoke and chalk dust; sigils once laid out on the floor could be seen sparking and twisting in the flames of the witchlight, and the circle itself was contracting, pinching inwards on the space occupied by Malphas.

Jennet gestured towards the jar still being gripped by Letitia. “Behold your prison,” she told Malphas, above the roar of the wind. “I seek no favours from you, and you have no power over me here. It is enough to see you chained away from this world.”

Malphas, who’d been doing his damnedest to rip her inside out from a distance to no avail, suddenly felt the edges of the maelstrom nipping at his flesh like so many airborne razorblades.

“Enough!” He bellowed it loudly enough to shake a fresh cloud of plaster loose from the ceiling, and from somewhere off stage came the smashing of glass, as a window fractured from frame to sill.

Red eyes glowed within the column of silently rushing air, for now holding its position.

“Name your terms,” Malphas finally declared, through gritted teeth.

Jennet stepped back and nodded to Athos, who addressed the demon coldly as the lines of the circle settled back into their original patterns with a sound like falling rain.

“You are to release Aramis unharmed from whatever hold you currently have on him – and to relinquish any claim or future claim on his soul, or mine, or that of Porthos or d’Artagnan,” he stated clearly. 

Malphas glared at him, then shrugged. “Is that all? You don’t want unspeakable wealth, or the power to crush your enemies?” he enquired, sounding faintly disappointed. 

“We do?” said Letitia hopefully, and Malphas gave her a look that made her step backwards involuntarily.

“But I am not yours to command,” he reminded her in a sibilant hiss. “Unless you choose to release me?”

Three pairs of eyes promptly glared at Letitia and she cleared her throat and wisely kept silent.

“I want you to release my father,” Porthos said suddenly. Athos looked sideways at him in surprise and felt a pang of guilt. He’d completely forgotten that Malphas had once claimed to have Porthos’ father held in eternal torment. Porthos had never mentioned it again afterwards, and to think that he’d been dwelling on it all this time without saying anything made Athos sad. 

They both needed to work on telling each other the important things, he thought ruefully. Maybe if they made it out of here alive they could make a start.

“Granted,” Malphas said eventually. They were pitifully small things to relinquish when weighed against his freedom, and he was scornful of them for not demanding more.

“Do it now,” Athos ordered. “I don’t trust you to keep your word after we release you.”

Malphas gave a reptilian snigger. “I’m hurt.” He raised his hand in a dismissive flicking motion, a ripple of energy making the witch-fire spark and flare, then inclined his head to Athos. “It’s done.”

They had no way of knowing if he’d kept his word, Athos realised grimly. They could hardly expect everyone to wait patiently while they tried to get a telephone connection put through to Paris in the middle of the night. He realised everyone was watching him expectantly, and swallowed.

“Very well.”

It was then he realised he had no idea what happened next. They couldn’t break the circle without unleashing Malphas on the world, and it had been Rochefort’s spell that trapped him in the first place. Faced with the humiliating prospect of asking Rochefort how it could be safely undone, Athos was saved by Jennet quietly stepping forward once more.

“If I may?”

They nodded, and she raised her hands in supplication. Malphas hissed at her mistrustfully, but she ignored him.

“By the bonds and seals of the covenant of angels, I banish thee Prince of Beasts to your proper place in the realms beneath and beyond, never to -”

“No!” Rochefort, seeing his last hope of glory about to be placed out of reach forever, lunged forwards and deliberately kicked at the circle. Blood-soaked salt scattered beneath his foot as he scuffed frantically at the chalk markings below, blurring the carefully drawn sigils and breaking the line of containment.

Porthos lunged at him, wrapping his arms around Rochefort’s waist and heaving him bodily into the air, lifting him away from the circle as he screamed obscenities. 

It was too late. The circle had been broken and Malphas seemed to swell in scale until he was towering over them, bestowing upon them a reptilian smile full of teeth. He stepped deliberately over the line and made a grab for Athos, who was closest. 

A clawed hand came to rest inches from his face, and Athos blinked as Malphas seemed to contemplate him in frustration.

“You granted our terms,” Athos said slowly in dawning realisation, conscious of the fact that out of the corner of his eye he could see Porthos clearly considering attempting to tackle Malphas like he had Rochefort, and hoping he stayed safely back. “You can’t touch us.”

Malphas considered this, his tongue flickering thoughtfully over his teeth. “I relinquished any claim on your souls,” he concluded. “I said nothing about not ripping your head from your body. You have simply escaped eternal torment.” He looked sideways at Rochefort and Letitia, cocking his head in a jerky, birdlike movement that clearly identified them as prey. “You however, I made no such promises over. Your souls will be mine.”

“But I released you!” Rochefort exclaimed, actually stepping forwards towards the demon in his indignant anger. “You promised - ”

“I promised nothing. But very well. In that case you may rule this miserable planet for me,” Malphas declared. 

Rochefort’s momentary look of startled triumph quickly faded again at his next mocking words. “When every other living thing upon its surface is dead.”

Malphas spread his arms wide, and the air around him seemed to shimmer. There was a faint background buzzing that grew steadily louder, and Athos recalled with a shudder the flying horrors that had swarmed from the portal in the ruins of the abbey chapel.

They’d managed to turn back the tide of it then, but there’d been four of them, standing together in united defiance, bonded by blood.

Despite Malphas’ threatening presence, Porthos had come back to stand at Athos’ side in silent solidarity, and Athos turned to look at him, thinking quickly.

 _What?_ Porthos mouthed, unable to interpret Athos’ intense expression.

There were still four of them, Athos thought. Aramis wasn’t dead, at least he hoped not. Just because they weren’t physically together – and it had been Malphas’ own magic that had linked them before, trying to use them as a conduit. Would it work again?

He reached out and took Porthos’ hand. Porthos frowned at him questioningly, but didn’t pull away. If they were going to die, there was no one else’s hand he’d rather be holding at the time.

“Think of the others,” Athos said under his breath, awkwardly conscious of the fact that if Malphas so chose he could pick the words from his very head and there was little point in whispering. “Picture them here, standing with us. We held an incursion back before.”

Divining his intent and determined to break his concentration, Malphas lashed out with startling speed, one clawed hand scoring a red slash across Athos’ cheek and making him cry out in pain. 

Regaining his balance, Athos felt Porthos’ fingers tighten reassuringly around his right hand, and at the same time it was as if he felt the faint pressure of another hand in his left.

\--

In a hospital room several hundred miles away, d’Artagnan abruptly jerked awake, his hand going instinctively to his cheek. It felt as if he’d been slapped awake, but save for the comatose Aramis, he was alone in the room. He looked down. His fingers had come away from his face bloody. 

For the first time in days Aramis flinched and mumbled in his sleep and d’Artagnan leaned forward eagerly, hopeful he might be waking. There was no further sound or movement from him, but just for a second the vial around his neck glowed softly.

D’Artagnan took Aramis’ hand into his own, and set his shoulders. He sensed that something, some crisis point was occurring, and he had no idea if it lay with Aramis or with Athos and Porthos.

“I can’t fight what I can’t see,” he whispered helplessly to Aramis. “But wherever you are, take my strength and use it as your own. I am yours to my last breath, and if we both die here then so be it, but no one shall say we went meekly.”

Aramis’ hand lay still and unresponsive in his own, but just for a second, d’Artagnan could have sworn he felt someone else’s hand grasp his other, fingertips ghosting over the line of an old scar, and he shivered.

\--

In focussing on Athos as the most likely threat to his plans, Malphas had made the mistake of disregarding Jennet. With his hellish onslaught temporarily held back by the others’ combined force of will she’d found the space to regroup, and with the last of her strength sent forth a binding spell ten times stronger than that she’d used before. 

He felt her magics twining about him like living wire and whirled round, but it was already hard to move. 

“When you chose to leave the circle you became manifest in this world,” Jennet told him, her voice sounding strained but managing to smile. “You will find a corporeal form has its liabilities.” 

Malphas found his arms were bound to his sides, thorny creepers bursting into life from the wood of the stage and wrapping around and around him with the strength of steel.

In an effort to escape he abandoned his form, turning in an instant from towering demonic beast into a smoky wraith with glowing eyes. The creepers fell uselessly to the floor, but this was what Jennet had been waiting for. With Malphas fighting every inch of the way she forced him back, not towards the circle, but towards the canopic jar lying forgotten on the ground.

Malphas let out a furious howl, of a sustained pitch and volume that drove everyone to their knees in agony. Jennet though, was no longer entirely human and obstinately stood her ground, trembling with the effort.

(...In a Parisian hospital room d’Artagnan jumped, as the mirror over the basin suddenly cracked from corner to corner...)

Blood dripping from his nose, Athos groped blindly for Porthos and felt him take his hand. Porthos, too reached out and grabbed Letitia’s hand none too gently.

“If we don’t stop this we’re all dead,” he ground out, his words inaudible over the ongoing scream and her own pained whimpering, but she took his meaning and managed to seize Rochefort's hand as well.

Their combined force of will gave Jennet the last ounce of strength she needed, and with a final echoing shriek, Malphas was funnelled into the jar like a steaming kettle in reverse.

The second his essence was contained, Porthos broke away from the others and slammed the top onto the jar, panting heavily. It felt unpleasantly warm under his hands, and the sudden silence made his ears ring.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder and Porthos flinched before realising it was Athos. He let him help him shakily to his feet.

“It’s over,” Athos said softly, and Porthos sagged against him in relief. 

They eyed the jar suspiciously for a few seconds, but it remained quiescent. 

Rochefort and Letitia were also back on their feet but Jennet looked unsteady, her face pale and drawn.

Porthos reached out to help her, but she waved away his offer of assistance with a grateful smile. "I'm fine."

“What will you do now?” Athos asked, feeling concerned for the young woman. Theoretically they had a spare bed, but the scandal it would cause should she move in with them didn’t bear thinking about. But Jennet was shaking her head.

“I died,” she reminded him gently. “Three hundred years ago. I’ve just been waiting to move on, that’s all. I’ve been trapped between worlds, and between forms. I can’t stay here any longer. It’s time for me to go.”

“But where to?” Athos persisted, looking startled. “Is heaven a real place then? Can you tell us anything, about what happens after death?”

Jennet shook her head again, amused. “I have no more idea than you. It will be interesting to find out, don’t you think?”

“Aren’t you afraid?” asked Porthos. He realised with a sense of shock that she was fading as they watched, until they could see right through her.

“Being afraid never stopped me yet,” she smiled. “And I don’t think it’s ever stopped you, either.”

She was faint now, barely an outline of dust motes in the candlelight. “Goodnight, gentlemen. Thank you for setting me free. And for the saucers of milk.” The last words hung in the empty air as the robe Athos had leant her fell empty to the stage. They heard a distant peal of laughter, and then she was gone. Porthos discreetly wiped his eyes, and Athos reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“Why are women always so bloody overdramatic?” Rochefort sneered, oblivious to their expression of sentiment.

When they ignored him he turned to glower accusingly at Letitia as the only woman available, then broke off in confusion. “Letitia? Where’s Letitia gone?”

Athos looked round sharply. “More importantly, where’s the jar gone?”

It rapidly became apparent that Letitia had taken advantage of the distraction caused by Jennet’s farewell to cut her losses and run – taking the canopic jar with her.

“This is all your fault!” Rochefort raged at Athos, who took a step backwards in startled surprise at his sudden fury. “What do you mean by ruining my ritual like this? It was all going according to plan until you had to wade in and lock up bloody Carville!”

Porthos was ready to intervene but Athos moved first, hauling back and punching Rochefort square in the face with the combined force of years of bottled up shame and regret on top of the sheer humiliated anger that Rochefort hadn’t ever really remembered him. 

Rochefort flew backwards to sprawl unmoving in the remains of the circle. Experimental prodding revealed, slightly to Athos’ surprise, that he was out cold. 

Porthos came over and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Feel better for that?” he grinned.

Athos looked up at him, breathing hard and rubbing his sore knuckles. “Yeah,” he admitted, starting to laugh tiredly. “Actually, I do.”

Feeling rather stunned, they walked slowly out of the theatre together into the frosty night. “How will we know if it worked?” Porthos wondered. “If Malphas kept his word I mean?”

“I’ll try and get hold of d’Artagnan in the morning,” said Athos. “I guess if Aramis has woken up, we can be reasonably sure that – that the rest of it will be carried through as well.” He reached for Porthos’ hand. “He couldn't touch us, in there. I think we're safe.”

“We’ve done all we can,” Porthos told him. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

They passed a public call box, and Athos came to a halt. “Wait here a sec. I need to do something.”

Porthos hung around outside, stamping his feet in the cold and blowing on his fingers, wondering what Athos was up to. He’d assumed he was going to try and get a call put through to France, but Athos was back out again in a couple of minutes, looking pleased with himself.

“What you up to?” Porthos asked, but Athos shook his head and started walking again.

“Wait and see.”

A few minutes later a police car passed them at speed, bells jangling as it drove back in the direction they’d come. Porthos looked sideways at Athos.

“You called them,” he guessed.

“Yes. A little anonymous tip-off that there’s a dead body in the old theatre. And I reckon Rochefort should be coming round right about now. Just in time to let them in,” Athos said with a certain amount of vindictive satisfaction.

“And him with his fingerprints on the murder weapon,” Porthos nodded. He gave a short laugh. “Guess he’ll get his wish granted then.” Athos looked at him curiously, and Porthos grinned. “He wanted the whole world to know his name, right? Well he’ll certainly be in all the papers when he’s hung for murder.” He spread his hands dramatically, picturing the headlines. “The murderous mental magician!”

Athos stifled a laugh, and took his hand again. “You’re awful.”

“I say these things so you don’t have to,” Porthos said happily. “Can we go to bed now?”

\--

D’Artagnan was dozing in the chair beside Aramis’ bed when he gradually became aware of a tugging on his hand. He looked up, still half asleep, to find Aramis blinking back at him, looking dazed and bewildered.

“Aramis?” D’Artagnan sat up hurriedly, overjoyed to find that he wasn’t dreaming.

“Where am I?” Aramis asked groggily, confused to find himself in an unfamiliar bed, and partly afraid that it wasn’t over, that to taunt him with the illusion of reality was just one more form of torture.

“Hospital.” d’Artagnan leaned forwards and embraced him thankfully. “Christ, I thought I’d lost you.”

“You almost did.” The warmth and strength of d’Artagnan’s arms gradually convinced Aramis that this was real, that he was finally safe. He hugged back, suddenly fierce, and they clung to each other.

“Don’t you dare leave me again,” d’Artagnan said thickly. 

Aramis shook his head. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. And – I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think it’s over, finally.” 

He suppressed a shudder, remembering the feeling of cruelly sharp bone fingers piercing his skin, the taste of brackish water in his mouth as they pinned him down, and then the unexpected sense of sudden deliverance, his body suffused in warm light, the indignant screams of his skeletal tormentors fading away along with the shadowy cavern. 

Aramis found the little phial hanging around his neck, and fingered it curiously. “What’s in here?”

D’Artagnan grinned. 

“Don’t ask.”

\--

Two days later, having just taken a late lunch in a nearby café, d’Artagnan was walking towards the hospital entrance when he heard someone hail him from across the street.

“D’Artagnan!”

He turned round at the familiar but unexpected voice, and to his astonishment saw Athos walking towards him.

“Athos? Athos!” D’Artagnan flung his arms around him in astonished relief, and Athos returned the embrace emotionally. “Is it really you? Whatever are you doing here?”

“It’s really me,” Athos laughed. “I thought you could maybe use a friendly face. How are you? How’s Aramis?”

“Doing good,” d’Artagnan nodded. “They say he can leave tomorrow. I can’t believe you’re here!” He beamed at Athos, touched and surprised that he should have made the long trip across the Channel to see them. 

He was relieved, too, that his own inward reaction to seeing Athos again was only one of long-held friendship, and that there was no lingering awkwardness resulting from his night of drug-fuelled fantasy. Somehow he could no longer imagine the flesh-and-blood Athos standing before him doing and saying the things that he’d pictured that night, and also found that he didn’t really want to.

“Come on. Come and see Aramis. He’ll be so pleased to see you.” D’Artagnan lead him into the hospital and up through a maze of corridors to a room on the third floor, where Aramis lay in a narrow bed beside a big window looking out over the city.

“You know, most people just pay a hotel for a room with a decent view,” Athos said dryly, and Aramis looked up at the door with comical surprise. 

_“Athos?”_

“Hello. I hear you had an argument with a truck.”

“Not my finest hour,” Aramis agreed, and they embraced each other. “Thank you,” he said soberly. “For everything that you did. D’Artagnan’s told me all about it.”

“Porthos did most of it,” Athos said. “I just tagged along at the end.”

“Is he here too?” Aramis asked eagerly, but Athos shook his head. 

“Couldn’t come away from work, sorry. Also as it turns out, he doesn’t have a passport. But he sends his best wishes. You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid.”

Aramis grinned. “No great hardship. Come here, sit down. Tell me everything that you couldn’t tell d’Artagnan on the telephone.”

\--

It was another few days before the doctors pronounced Aramis well enough to travel, and the little group made their way thankfully back to England.

Porthos was waiting for them when they reached home, and embraced Aramis warmly as soon as he stepped in the door.

“It’s good to see you up and about,” he smiled, and Aramis laughed.

“It was touch and go there for a while. Athos told me everything that happened – how can I ever thank you for everything you’ve done?” 

“It was a joint effort.” Porthos beamed at him. “And worth it in the end, thank God.”

They swapped stories over supper – for Porthos’ benefit Aramis recalled again his ordeal in what for want of a better word he’d taken to calling the underworld. Athos and Porthos then took turns in relating what had happened in the old theatre, and d’Artagnan gave them all a somewhat edited version of his experiences in the catacombs. 

“I suppose it’s back to normal after this,” Aramis sighed after they’d eaten, leaning back on the settee with his arm around d’Artagnan. 

“I’m not sure I can remember what normal feels like,” d’Artagnan admitted. “Ugh, does this mean I’ll have to get a job now?”

Aramis snorted. “Unless you intend to spend the rest of your life being purely decorative.” He hesitated. “I was thinking I might look to see if there were any positions being advertised at the hospital here, if no one had any objections?”

“Really?” D’Artagnan cheered up at the thought the four of them might not be immediately separated again. He loved Aramis, but he had just spent almost a year in his exclusive company, and was looking forward to seeing a bit more of his other friends.

“That’s great news,” Porthos said warmly and Athos echoed the sentiment, fetching another bottle of wine to celebrate.

“And here’s to your timely resurrection,” he said, lifting his glass to Aramis with a smile.

“Here’s to all of us,” Aramis corrected him. “If we hadn’t had each other, none of us would be here today.”

“To us then,” Athos agreed, and they all drank each other’s health with enthusiasm. 

\--

It wasn’t until much later that night, tucked into one of the beds in the privacy of their plush hotel room, that d’Artagnan finally confessed to Aramis the full details of his fevered dream fantasy. 

On the strict understanding that Aramis would never breathe a word of it to either Athos or Porthos he withheld nothing, and was more relieved than he cared to admit that Aramis’ reaction was one of intense amusement. 

While he had plenty of failings, jealousy had never been one of them and Aramis willingly gave his word to keep silent on the matter. It was more than enough to know that he could tease d’Artagnan about it forever more, and he told him so gleefully.

“Should have left you in the damn coma,” d’Artagnan grumbled, but Aramis rolled him over and kissed him until he dropped the pretence and grinned up at at him.

“If you’d left me in a coma,” Aramis pointed out with a wicked smile, “I wouldn’t be able to do this for you now, would I?” And before d’Artagnan could ask what, he’d disappeared under the covers and worked his way down between d’Artagnan’s legs.

\--

Back in the cottage, once the others had gone Porthos voiced a lingering worry. 

“What do you think Letitia will do with that jar?” he asked, as they were getting ready for bed.

“If she’s got an ounce of sense, she’ll never open it,” Athos said feelingly. “I don’t imagine she’d find Malphas in the best of moods, and he can no longer take it out on any of us. Although I can’t say I’m sorry that she took the responsibility away from us as far as what to do with it went.”

“No plans to track her down?” Porthos chuckled.

“None whatsoever.” Athos said firmly, climbing into bed. Porthos joined him, wriggling up close. 

“Feels odd without Jennet being at the bottom,” Porthos said, realising that without really noticing it he’d got used to there being a warm weight curled up by his feet when he went to sleep.

“I’m going to miss her,” Athos admitted. 

“We could always get a real cat.”

“Do you mean that?”

Porthos laughed. “If it’ll make you happy, yeah, why not?”

Athos kissed him. “I’d love one,” he confessed, and Porthos grinned. 

“Go on then.”

Once they’d been snuggled up together peacefully a while longer, Porthos took a deep breath. “I’ve got something to tell you,” he said. Athos looked up and smiled hesitantly, unsure if Porthos was building up to good news or bad. 

“Go on?”

“I got my first proper client today.”

Athos sat up. “What? But Porthos, that’s brilliant!”

“I know.” Porthos gave him a relieved smile. “Finally somebody agreed for me to take on their case. It’s just one, but - ”

“First of many,” Athos said firmly. “First step on the road. Porthos, I’m so pleased for you, you must be so proud.”

“Yeah. I am a bit,” Porthos admitted, glad that Athos was making as big a deal of it as he’d secretly wanted to. “And I didn’t even have to bewitch anybody,” he grinned, and Athos gave him a push.

“God, don’t even joke about it.” He smiled. “Told you it would all work out.”

“Yeah, I know.” Porthos pulled Athos back down into his arms. “It just felt for a while that it never would.”

“I never doubted you’d make it for a second,” Athos told him. “I’ve never met anyone as determined as you.”

“It’s going to be hard work. But I love it.” Porthos kissed him on the temple and sighed happily. “And I love you.”

Athos settled against his warm chest and kissed him back. “I love you too,” he whispered. “I’m glad we found each other.”

“We’ve been through a lot together,” Porthos sighed, thinking back over the past few years. 

“I wouldn’t change it,” Athos said. “Not for anything. Not if it was all leading to this, us, here, now. It makes it all worth it a thousand times over.”

“I tried to rob you,” Porthos said sleepily, remembering how they’d met.

“You succeeded,” Athos mumbled, eyes closed and already half asleep.

“Eh?”

Athos smirked into the pillow. “You stole my heart.”

Porthos laughed, sliding his hand experimentally up inside Athos’ nightshirt to establish if he really was as sleepy as he sounded. 

“Then I got away with the best prize of all.” 

\--

**Author's Note:**

> There is a pinterest moodboard for this fic [here](https://uk.pinterest.com/suzieshooter/fic-now-i-lay-me-down-to-sleep/).


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